I Specialize In Happy Endings (Not Euphemistically)
by slash mania
Summary: Arthur isn't crazy, even though there's a bet that says he will have eventually become crazy after working with Cobb for so long. Arthur is hearing a voice (accented and charming, which pronounces the point man's name with such fondness it makes Arthur want to blush a little) narrate his actions as he kicks ass in dreamshare.
1. Chapter 1

A.N: I was having a bad time of things and ended up watching the clip of Tom Hardy reading a children's story- it totally inspired me to write an Inception/ Stranger Than Fiction AU, where Eames is the author and Arthur is the main character of his story.

Disclaimer: I don't own Inception or Stranger Than Fiction.

It all started in a dream.

Arthur, kicking ass and taking names, had been leading a few security projections up a staircase he'd included in the design, knowing that he'd need the advantages it offered at the first hint that something was wrong. And things were already going wrong. They had their so-so architect, Nash, holding the first level together, and Arthur was in charge of the second while Cobb scrambled to find the secrets they had been paid to steal.

It appeared that they had been made within their mark's dream- either their mark knew that he was dreaming or their mark knew that they were trying to steal something from him, or, as it had been happening more and more lately, Cobb had brought Mal into the dream.

The point man grit his teeth and chanced a glance over his shoulder as he ran- the steps obligingly shifting for him when his gait stuttered and almost made him take a header off his own Penrose Steps. The steps stopped moving as soon as Arthur regained his balance; if he had wanted to take the damned escalator in their _creepy empty shopping mall_ dream level, he would have.

He was being followed by several more security projections now- suicidal three piece suit-wearing, gun-toting lemmings. Maybe if they were fast enough or stuck closely to him as he made the jump, they'd not get trapped in the paradox. But he _wanted_ them all to fall from his never ending staircase.

And then, Arthur heard a voice as he reached the first landing.

 _"Arthur led the foolish security projections on a madcap race, a merry chase- follow me, the point man thought, hoping to buy the Squint the time he'd need to break the safe and steal their mark's secrets."_

Arthur paused on the landing, briefly flummoxed. That voice, it was...it was _in_ the dream. But he hadn't heard his new friends speak. Arthur narrowed his eyes and pulled his gun, not willing to fuck around with a disembodied voice when this distraction had cost him important seconds. He'd have to pick them off or fight them hand to hand, then.

The narration began once more as Arthur took down the first projection to get within three-feet of him.

 _"One by one, as the staircase was narrow, projections rushed and then bottle-necked at the first tight turn ending in Arthur's landing, his perch. Arthur sighted down the barrel, choosing the nearest target and firing! The projection, slumped, the shot to the head killing him immediately, dropping him like a sack of bricks. Arthur, brave and defiant, wouldn't stop till the job was done, till the Squint was finally back home safely with his children."_

Arthur continued to fight, dodging a bullet here, a bullet there, and finally throwing a few of his attackers off the stairs, not stopping to listen to the sound the bodies made as they dropped.

Once the threat had been taken care of, Arthur looked around his eerie shopping mall and noticed a speaker installed near the ceiling. Maybe the voice was coming from there? If he wanted to be sure, he'd have to find the place to access the intercom or loudspeaker system, maybe in an office? As he was mulling this over, he spotted Cobb.

The extractor was a little dusty (because Arthur had hidden the safe in the basement) and a little bloody (because he'd probably had a few of his own projections to deal with, including the persistent shade of his wife) making the man squint as he spotted Arthur still lingering on his perch. But Cobb had gotten the papers they needed, he'd discovered the physical manifestation of the secret within the mark's mind.

It shouldn't have been such an _ah-ha_ moment, but Arthur almost cracked the brief smile when he got it. Cobb was the Squint. The Squinter Extraordinaire!

"Come on!" Cobb (or, as Arthur wouldn't be able to help thinking from time to time now, _the Squint_ ) shouted to Arthur. "I've got it! I've got it all and we have to move!"

Arthur nodded shortly and didn't even blink as he forced his Penrose Steps to smooth out into normal steps. And from normal steps they shifted once more into a slide.

His polished shoes barely squeaked as he slipped down the new slide, hopping off and moving to Cobb's side immediately, stowing his gun away and ready to move. It appeared that the coast was clear but more projections wouldn't surprise him. It was expected now, it was becoming a tiring but always occurring feature of their jobs together. It made Arthur want to sigh.

 _"Ready to move and help his dearest friend, Arthur wondered when it would end. And when that happened, what exactly would it mean for_ him _? Arthur would someday have a life away from this man. Someday he would live for himself and work for himself and maybe he'd be happy."_

Arthur took a risk as he and Cobb began to walk to a more secure area, so they could give themselves the kick and reach Nash's level.

"Did you just hear that," Arthur asked Cobb, trying hard not to look unnerved. The point man shouldn't look unnerved. The point man shouldn't look shaken. But he had to know whether or not Cobb was catching these tidbits of deliciously accented narration!

Cobb didn't even look over as he was busy flipping through the papers he had rescued from the safe. Reviewing the information, memorizing it. Cobb didn't appear to have heard Arthur, at all.

Arthur sighed, once again, to himself. He could ask when they were out of the dream and on the run again. Maybe he'd say something then.

 _"Little did Arthur know,"_ the Voice said, warmly and affectionately pronouncing the point man's name, _"that the day would come sooner than he thought."_


	2. Chapter 2

A.N: A second chapter...on the same day? I must really like this idea if I'm working on it so hard! Notice how I play with canon and then laugh at its face? Like right in its face? How I mock Eames's attempts to have Arthur fall in love with other characters of his story...and how his own forger character doesn't move him? If you guys didn't laugh, I did!

Disclaimer: I don't own Inception or Stranger Than Fiction.

Eames watched the blinking line on his word document. He'd already deleted everything on the page because it was utter _crap_. But deleting the stuff hadn't given Eames the satisfaction he wanted. If he were truly so upset over that, he'd switch to some other means of writing. Pen and paper, piece of chalk and a slate, or the dry erase markers and the wipe board on the wheeled stand in the corner. As Eames went over his options, he turned away from his computer and finally looked around the room. It was in disarray.

Empty paper cups from his tea-runs littered the floor, the walls were covered by a massive outline for his yet to be titled novel, the one he was already behind on. He was stuck on a proper ending for Arthur. After four bestselling novels, Mr. "Dear god, don't ever say my first name, I beg you" Eames earned a reputation for himself because of his ability to churn out happy endings- for his ability to always, _always_ , give his main characters exactly what they wanted.

But he'd barely gotten anywhere since he'd solved the plot issue a few days ago. The Squint was now safely back with his children and Arthur, the best point man, was free to do whatever he wished! Cobb was the biggest obstacle between Arthur and his wishes to make a name for himself in dreamshare, to be successful without having to constantly worry over the man and his burning desire to get home to his poor motherless children.

With a team of the best in dreamshare, headed by Cobb, kept in line by Arthur, the job was completed. Sure, there had been more than a few problems during the job-Cobb's 'I'm going to do anything, even throw my team under the bus' mentality would only make it easier for Arthur to break his ties to Cobb when it was over, the increased sedation by their chemist, Yusuf, increasing the threat of being trapped in Limbo had forced Arthur to work even harder on his level.

...And to be completely honest, Eames had spent a large amount of the _Fischer job scenes_ focusing on Arthur's efforts and insights. Arthur was brilliant, yes, a bit of a stick-in-the-mud, but still an excellent point man. Even though the story revolved around him, just because the man was the main character, didn't mean the secondary characters weren't important. Eames had carefully created the secondary characters, wanting the Fischer job to work well. He even found a reason to replace that architect _Nash_ with a young woman he had yet to name aside from a brief note about her many scarves, who was new to dreamshare but so very talented.

There had been plenty of room for Arthur to start a relationship with _her_. Eames had even written a cute little scene where Arthur steals a kiss, but nothing had come of it. If Eames understood Arthur's character, and he was fairly sure that after writing the point man for so long he'd better know, it was clear that Arthur didn't want her. Then, there was that forger, whom Eames had been toying with setting up with Arthur. They would have worked well together, Eames thought. The forger was charming, pushed Arthur but fully expected to be pushed back. Once again, they had a scene that could have led into something else; the _merry chase/ be back before the kick_. Or the scene where he shows up Arthur by bringing a grenade launcher to a gunfight. Damn straight, _you mustn't be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling._ Even with all that potential, Arthur hadn't budged. The final scene that Eames had managed to write after the inception was successful left Arthur on his own in the airport, all alone as the team separated.

Now that the Squint was safely home, Arthur was free to do whatever he wanted.

But that was the question Eames was struggling to find an answer to.

"What does Arthur want?" Eames asked himself, moving his chair a little further away from his desk and trying to tilt it back on two legs, like he'd so often written Arthur as doing. He managed it, smiling to himself, just a little bit. He closed his eyes and wondered what could Arthur possibly want now? What was going to make his life complete? What would make the end of his story satisfying?

Eames, too lost in thought, didn't hear his door open and close. He didn't hear the sound of approaching footsteps, either.

"Arthur wants you to finish your book," a blunt, feminine voice said. "He also wants you to take this tea. It's burning my fingers."

Eames's eyes snapped open and he saw her. Offering another paper cup of tea, this short girl, dressed in business casual but armored with determination, remained firm.

"How did you get into my apartment?"

She barely blinked. "Door was open. My predecessor warned me that when you get stuck you become forgetful about stuff like that. My predecessor also warned me to come bearing tea."

Eames took the cup from her, nodding his thanks before carefully opening the lid and taking a sniff. He sighed in pleasure. The earl grey tea was just as he liked it- blessedly hot with enough sugar to sweeten it but not enough to mask the natural flavor. He was already liking this woman.

"I take it that Sophia quit as my PA?"

The new PA, or maybe the tea-bringing robber who was going to kill him and make off with his computer and wallet, nodded. "She said something about not being able to handle you anymore."

Eames snorted and took a hesitant sip of the still hot tea. He was burning the tip of his tongue and he didn't care.

"I've been stymied for the better part of six months. I've only just managed to get my main character's largest problems taken care of. Now I need to find a way to end the story correctly."

Rather than gawk at him like Sophia had, this new PA smirked. "Difficult character or are you being picky, Mr. Eames?"

Eames struggled to come up with an answer to that question, sipping his tea to give himself an extra moment to think. He was worried that it was a bit of both.

His new PA had pulled up a chair, a scarred up hard-backed wooden chair that was the mate to the one Eames sat on.

"I've been hired by your publishing company to help you. Not beat you up, or threaten you, or make this any harder than it has to be. I'm telling you that I've never missed a deadline, Mr. Eames. What can I do to help you now?" She rolled her shoulders in a shrug before crossing her arms over her chest. "I've heard it all, so don't be shy. You aren't trying to kill Arthur, are you?" She asked Eames this with her eyebrows raised, making her look much younger than Eames had originally pegged her as.

Eames turned in his chair and carefully placed the full cup of tea on his desk, far enough from his computer that there was no risk of it spilling on the thing. He turned back to look at his new PA, saying, "For the last four books I've written, I've managed to give my main characters what they want- what they desire, hope for, or dream of. I make them happy." Eames gestured helplessly. "I specialize in happy endings. But I don't know how to give that to Arthur!"

His new PA nodded shortly before getting up from her chair and looking around. Her decision was quick and she practically pinned him to his chair with a glance. "Okay," she said, "this is how it's going to work. You're going to finish that tea, then, you're going to make this place pass for habitable- take out your trash, do your dishes, and so on because I'm not your maid. Then, we're going to go for a walk to brainstorm."

Eames blinked at her over the lip of his paper cup of tea. She was this short, pretty little thing who was going to move the mountain or force the mountain to move itself. For the first time, Eames took a proper look at her, not just drifting over identifying features like her dark hair, slim figure, or her lightening quick smile. They may have never met, but she reminded him of someone. Then it hit him.

"You wouldn't happen to like scarves, would you?"

She was quick, but Eames caught the glint of humor sparking in her eye before she schooled her features into something more somber and regretful. "I haven't been able to bring myself to wear another scarf. Not since the last client I was paid to assist. I still remember how it felt to strangle the poor bastard with my favorite paisley patterned scarf, hissing, _I don't care if you're missing_ Dancing With the Stars, _you'll finish that chapter even if it kills you!_ "

He was set. He _wanted_ her for his PA. But first, he wanted her name. Since he hadn't managed to find a name that fit for the young architect who _doesn't_ become Arthur's love-interest, maybe he could borrow his PA's.

"Well, I'm glad you don't have any with you just now," Eames remarked, offering her his free hand to properly greet her. She took his hand and shook it, quick and businesslike. "And your name is?"

"Ariadne," she said. "I'm better known as the PA who _always_ meets her deadline. I'm sure if we work together the book will be finished before your deadline, Mr. Eames."


	3. Chapter 3

A.N: Yay, another chapter! I have the vaguest outline, but it's working!

Disclaimer: I don't own Inception or Stranger Than Fiction.

The months after the successful inception of Robert Fischer left Arthur feeling lost. His main job was over. The driving force behind his actions during the last few years had come to a stop. Cobb was safely back home and Saito had kept his promises. Not only had Cobb been able to enter the United States again, but the troubles that had forced him to flee had diminished with a few helpful nudges from one of the most powerful men Arthur could say he knew. Of course he'd never _say it_ out loud or flaunt it. He believed in protecting his client's anonymity and took care with dissolving all signs of contact, leaving no trails, and no room for discriminating evidence to land in either his lap as a dream criminal or in Saito's as former tourist.

It was good business to protect your former clients and it was always good business to let your work gain notice- the inception had been difficult, Arthur was still not sure how it had all come together in the end. There was much he was unwilling to say he was spotty on after they'd finished the journey and separated. Like, he spent a solid week not able to recall the name of their architect. Strange, considering he'd worked so closely with her. He had been making dinner when it finally came to him; it would have been funny if anyone had spotted the expression that crossed his face as he was carefully slicing vegetables to toss into a stir-fry. He'd almost cut himself with the paring knife as he said the name aloud. He said it several times after the first, trying to recall if he'd said it before. A silly question, considering he must have. It wasn't like he pointed at her, clapped his hands, or whistled to gain her attention during their months-long job. Yet it still felt weird to pronounce the name "Ariadne" over the carefully minced bell peppers, onions, and mushrooms on his cutting board.

But as soon as he said it it couldn't have been more clear- _of course_ that was her name! It was distinctive with that ironic edge when one took into account the Ariadne of Greek mythology and the young architect's skill building mazes.

Forgetting Ariadne's name wasn't the only strange thing, though.

The Voice (which gained status as a proper noun because the things that begin to narrate his every move must deserve it), having narrated through every step of the inception, suddenly stopped once the job was over. The Voice's silence was unnerving. After months and months of dedicated narration, the Voice had stopped speaking _to_ Arthur and speaking _of_ Arthur. It took Arthur the longest time to realize he was lonely.

Bizarrely, Arthur was hurt by the absence, even though he had begun to ask himself some serious questions about his mental health as a voice only he could hear said stuff like: _"Arthur, the best of point men, had created gravity in the void- during a job where nearly everything had gone wrong and had thrown his careful plans out the window, he managed to catch lightening in a bottle and did what was thought to be impossible."_ As he had _listened_ to that, clutching the rail in the elevator, manufacturing the kick with explosives so his trussed up team would be able to wake on the next level, he had fought not to blush at the praise. How vain was that? How ridiculous?

But Arthur missed the Voice when it suddenly stopped. Figuring that he had deserved a break, Arthur had done what he thought was necessary. He stayed in the Los Angeles area in case something fell through for Cobb, but remained in one of the places he kept to take a break from dreamshare- Arthur settled in his ridiculously priced apartment in Santa Monica, keeping watch for signs of Robert Fischer's inception having taken, but also giving himself the time he'd need to work his problem out.

* * *

Eames, under Ariadne's watch, had made sure to make something that looked like an outline for the ending. He'd even titled it like that, the heading at the top of his current pad of paper said, _Arthur's Ending (but not like that, it sounds awful)._

So far, Eames had discovered next to nothing that would sufficiently wrap up Arthur's story. Or, nothing that would wrap it up the way that Eames _wanted_.

See, Eames had made a name for himself in the literary world. He always gave his characters a happy ending, he always got them what they wanted or needed, and the journey made for an extremely satisfying read. Eames had no high opinions about himself or his writing. He had a high opinion about his ability to read people. Arthur, though he was the product of a dream Eames had had several years ago, a dream that left Eames struggling towards wakefulness with this _idea_ of Arthur, was a person, too. The point man had wants and needs and dreams and it was Eames's job to satisfy them.

Yet the page remained blank.

Ariadne peeked over his shoulder, not tutted to herself or frowning. After a solid ten seconds of peeking without comment, Eames looked up at her and raised an eyebrow.

"Comments?"

Ariadne was rereading the only words on the page, then she stopped. She shot him a look. "You've won awards for your writing, Mr. Eames. _Awards._ Why is "Arthur's Ending (but not like that it sounds awful)" the best you can come up with in the last twenty minutes?"

Rather than get defensive, Eames was completely honest. "I don't know what Arthur wants."

"You've already said that much."

"Yes, but I just can't figure it out."

Ariadne sighed, not admitting defeat, but trying a different plan of attack. "During our first walk, you'd already explained the past plot development. You know Arthur like the back of your hand. Describe him to me."

Eames pushed his chair away from his desk and turned it so he wouldn't have to strain his neck by looking up and over at her, gesturing for her to take a seat in the nearby chair. She did so, but waited expectantly for an answer.

"Arthur," Eames began, "is in his early thirties but looks as if he's in his twenties. Dreamshare is a competitive field, so Arthur had to make a name for himself early on as the point man to go to if you not only wanted to get something done, but to have it done _right_. His work is exact and in some respects he lacks imagination- but point men don't need to be imaginative, they need to be certain of facts, figures, and any forms of pertinent information related to the jobs they have taken on. So, he's smart, knows a lot about architecture and various methods of research and inquiry. I'm not saying that he knows everything. When he makes a mistake, he owns up to it but then does what a good point man should, which is to recalibrate and come up with a feasible solution. He is loyal, driven, and skilled. He prefers to wear three-piece suits, uses a Glock 17, and doesn't like to smile because he has the most adorable dimples." Eames tried to fight away his growing sense of defeat, as if he'd spoken some life into the character of Arthur (last name redacted), and couldn't stand up to him in a fight, literal or metaphorical, over what he wanted. "Though he was once in the military, Arthur doesn't like to take orders. His participating in Project Somnacin led to his use of the PASIV, his discovery of his talents in dreamshare, and his stealing the technology. I'm sure you've gleaned the rest from that point on, though."

Ariadne leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms over her chest, and considered the block of character information she'd been given.

"You seem to know a lot about him."

"I made him up, of course I do!"

"So you've made this guy, who you've now said has just completed his mission and scored two points already- he's helped his friend and he's done something big in his field."

Eames nodded.

"And you've mentioned that you've tried to get him involved with other characters in the story, but he doesn't appear interested."

Eames nodded again, recalling how this Ariadne had looked just a little pleased with herself when she read the _other_ Ariadne's kissing scene with Arthur. "With neither the architect or the forger."

And Eames was pretty sure that Ariadne had noticed the little similarities shared by him and the forger; Eames was sure that every author did that, once or twice. Sort of half-written themselves into the story? Sure, forger-Eames had cute little bantering scenes that may be considered flirting, maybe, but it didn't change the fact that Arthur hadn't done anything.

Eames tried to pretend that his pride wasn't a little bit hurt- he was the author, damn it, if he wanted Arthur to fall in love with the forger, it should happen because he said so! But Arthur was a difficult character. He had a mind of his own. He was stubborn.

Ariadne waited through Eames's quiet moment where he sifted through his ridiculous hurt feelings, then stated the obvious. "I think that you shouldn't think of the ending."

Eames pointedly began to tap his pen against the heading of his pad of paper, which his PA dutifully ignored in favor of plowing ahead with her idea. "Just don't think about the ending. Write whatever you want for Arthur. Take him on an adventure. Have him win the lottery. See where it takes you. Maybe if you loosen up, Arthur will tell you what he wants." She rolled her eyes at her advice, knowing that it sounded a little silly. "Or, you'll finally figure out what you want Arthur to want."

Rather than start a debate or pick apart the idea, Eames actually considered it. Had he been too focused on the plot in the first place? Would it be better if he let his plot rest and not stress over it being perfect?

"You know," he began, nodding to himself and putting the pad of paper on his desk, setting it aside. "I'll give it a go!"

Before, he might have played with the idea of pushing Ariadne's buttons- telling her he'd do it tomorrow to watch her eyes narrow and then stare at the calendar hanging on the wall that had notations in red ink stating exactly when the due date was. Several weeks, yes. But not enough time to lollygag. Instead of messing with notebooks and pens, Eames returned his attention to his computer, which he'd turned on at the start of today's little _how do we solve the problem with the ending_ discussion.

He opened up a fresh document, focused on the blinking line, forgot the last bit of what he wrote forever ago, and began to type as Ariadne moved to his kitchen, saying something about tea and lunch.

Eames was already on page two when she brought him his tea and his sandwich (the tea on a coaster, the sandwich on a plate), leaving them at his elbow while he worked.

The tea grew cold, but Eames didn't notice.

* * *

 _"Arthur was sleeping,"_ the Voice said. As soon as the words were spoken, Arthur's eyes snapped open in surprise. He _was_ sleeping. _He had been sleeping_. But he was now awake. Previously, he had been cuddled up in blankets, hugging a pillow, probably snoring if he gave credit to anyone's complaints about him being a deep sleeper who sounded like a hibernating bear. Now, he was quiet and forcing himself to be still. He wasn't hugging his pillow as much as he was strangling it, fingers digging into the soft feather pillow that bore a wet spot from where he'd had his mouth pressed against it as he slept.

 _"He awoke suddenly, coming to full awareness as easily as he did when waking from a PASIV-assisted dream. But he wasn't working. Not anymore. He knew it, deep in his heart, that now that he'd worked one of the highest paying jobs of his career, he could do whatever he wanted."_

Arthur rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. He tried to calm his breathing. "No," Arthur said, slightly horrified by this notion. But the Voice continued on!

 _"Arthur was going to go on an adventure."_

Arthur's eyes widened. "Oh no," he whispered to himself, still horrified. He was stunned to hear the Voice again. It had been _months_ since he'd heard a single word. And how could it possibly think he wanted out of dreamshare?! Though he did have to very quietly admit to himself that he'd been looking at the hefty sum sitting in one of his special accounts, wondering what he was going to do with it. Arthur just pulled the blanket up to his nose, huddled in his warm bed and waited to hear more from the Voice.

 _"Because,"_ the Voice said, just as fond, as charming as ever. _"Arthur knew, deep in his heart, that adventure was going to find him sooner rather than later."_

The blanket only partially muffled Arthur's soft curse.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I don't own Inception or Stranger Than Fiction.

"Arthur...is there something you need to talk to me about?"

Tired, having stayed up _forever_ after the Voice's pronouncement, Arthur could have looked better, even though he was dressed nicely and had a shower. He'd invited Cobb over to his place, gave him directions and questioned the man on the whereabouts of his children, only getting a dry, "You'd think I shut them up in an oven when I get a chance to go out and be an adult, right?" And when that didn't get a response, Cobb admitted that the children were in school.

The other man was looking around the kitchen with all its neat appliances, toying with his half-full cup of coffee, waiting for Arthur to answer his question and return to the table with his own drink.

"Just a sec," Arthur answered as he had been busy pouring his own coffee, placing it on the table and then stopping briefly in front of the sink so he could turn on his garbage disposal. He'd had the presence of mind to drop something in there before turning it on.

The InSinkErator whirred to life, the sharp blades demolishing the skin of an orange. It would do two things at once- the carefully quartered peel would deodorize the disposal _and_ the noise of the disposal would hopefully drown out Arthur's personal narrator.

It was just as grating as Arthur had hoped. He sat down, picked up his mug for the first time and tried to take a sip as Cobb stared.

The Voice began, _"Arthur picked up his coffee-"_

Even though he'd had the disposal running, he'd _still_ heard it! As soon as the Voice started to narrate his actions, Arthur stopped.

He slammed the cup back onto the table and stared at it, staring and staring, performing a test.

As Cobb started to talk ("Cause, you know, you can talk to me if something's up...") Arthur touched one finger, _just one_ , to the handle of his cup and heard the Voice again.

 _"Arthur-"_

The point man took his finger away, considering this. He tried again and got similar results. If he repeated it, kept at it for several inquisitive pokes, the Voice kind of got stuck repeating the first word.

Finally, Arthur's need for caffeine became stronger than his need to thwart the Voice and it's need to narrate his life, to tell a story that Arthur wanted no part in. He wasn't going on an adventure. No way.

When he picked up the cup and took a deep swallow, the Voice continued, unabated, garbage disposal or not.

 _"Arthur picked up his coffee and took a drink. He set it down and looked seriously at the Squint, who waited for an answer."_

"Can you hear that?"

Cobb blinked. "You mean the garbage disposal?"

Arthur shook his head. "No. No, listen carefully. I can't be the only one who can hear it. If I am the only one who can hear it, I've called you here for more than coffee."

Cobb actually looked at his watch for a second and then said, "Well, if you wanted to do lunch, that would be alright. I've got to get home by at least one o'clock."

Arthur took a deep breath and said what he probably should have started the conversation with. "Cobb. I'm hearing a voice. It told me I'm going on an adventure and I really don't want that."

Surprisingly, Cobb didn't react too badly to that. "Oh."

" _Oh?_ That's all you've got to say? I'm just a little bit worried that I might be hearing things!"

Cobb thought about it. "Well, this voice doesn't sound like it wants to hurt you. That can't be too bad."

Arthur was just shocked. "It wants me to go on an _adventure_ , Cobb. Do you have any idea what that's supposed to entail?"

* * *

There was a new board set up in Eames's place. The board was a cork-board, for the sake of change, and there had been a mock dartboard set up on the front. Each ring of hastily scribbled in color had been given a paper label, a one-word-prompt.

Standing a couple of feet away from the mock dartboard was Ariadne, blindfolded and armed with a handful of darts.

"Is this really necessary?" The PA asked, quick to get to the point. "Did you bother to read any of the inspirational quotes I printed out for you?"

Eames was eagerly waiting by her side, having just left his writing when he needed another idea and came up empty. The labels were for things Arthur would find or experiance on his adventure. Ariadne's quotes had been great, but this had just the right amount of spontaneity and chance. It was like he was gambling using possible themes for said adventure!

He put his hands on her shoulders and very carefully nudged her to one side, centering her in front of the board.

"Just, you know, do me this favor. I'll be forever grateful!"

Maybe she rolled her eyes, maybe she didn't. She did sigh deeply and instruct him to stay behind her because "getting your eye taken out by a dart won't be a good enough excuse to get more time."

* * *

The Voice was quiet. Arthur wasn't sure why, but he went to turn off the garbage disposal anyway. It wouldn't do to burn out the motor, not that running it was helping do more than make the disposal smell like citrus.

"How do I know that I'm not crazy? Cause I spent the rest of my night checking for bugs, audio equipment, anything! It's not being projected or transmitted through any sort of- sort of _thing,"_ Arthur finished, exasperated by his own inability to finish a sentence.

Cobb was pensive as he bit into one of the thirteen donuts Arthur had procured from a nearby shop- they were fresh and warm, lightly sprinkled with glaze or powdered sugar, nestled atop wax paper inside a roomy pink box. Arthur wasn't touching any, so Cobb helped himself.

"The first time you heard it, you heard it in a dream."

Arthur nodded sharply.

"Well, what else do you know about this voice?"

Arthur crossed his arms over his chest and though about it, forcing himself not to correct Cobb based on his pronunciation, maybe; that it was Voice not voice, but that was ridiculous. "It's a guy. A man. He's got a British accent," Arthur had to stop and clear his throat, _not_ allowing himself to add in anything like _he sounds charming_ or _I bet he's handsome, too._ "He knows about me, you, everyone from our team- that we completed inception. And he..." Arthur faltered and Cobb waited.

"What?"

"He," Arthur began again, feeling a little awkward, "seems to want me to be happy."

* * *

Eames pried the darts loose while Ariadne, now free from her blindfold, wrote down which prompts she'd managed to hit. It had been four out of six darts.

"You're a very good shot," Eames complimented, putting away the darts and returning to her side so he could grab the list. She held it away from him and began to carefully rip it up. He would have complained, but he noticed what she was doing. In careful little slips, the winning prompts were now separated from the list, thrown out of order, and after some rummaging around, placed into an old hat Eames didn't wear very often.

"This hat doesn't leave my desk," she said, offering him a chance to pull one of the choices out so he could write. "Come to me when you run out of steam. You'll make another choice and continue working."

Eames nodded and reached into the hat, eyes closed so he wouldn't accidentally see her careful handwriting. He stirred the papers around inside the hat, finally picking one.

"You're the best, Ariadne," Eames said, clutching the winning slip of paper in his fist and offering her a grin, his eyes open and ready to get back to work.

* * *

"Cobb, I don't know what to do."

"You're not crazy."

Arthur had been pointedly not saying that very much. He'd called Cobb in because Cobb had dealt with honest to god _crazy_ before. Granted, he hadn't dealt with it very well, but beggars couldn't be choosers. Arthur didn't have a history of mental illness within his family history. He'd always had a firm grip on reality, even as he got deeper and deeper into working with the PASIV and building dreams.

It was reassuring to hear someone else say that he wasn't going nuts, but it would only take him so far.

"Says the man who couldn't hear the voice I've been ranting about. It calls you _the Squint_ , you know?"

Cobb sighed and ran one hand through his hair, ignoring Arthur's last comment.

"I'm not a doctor, Arthur. I can only give you my best opinion," Cobb gestured around the kitchen, leaning against his chair as Arthur stood with the counter to his back, hands in his pockets, fingering his die and wondering if he were tricking himself somehow.

"If this voice seems to think that you need time out from dreamshare, to take a trip or have an adventure, see what happens if you defy it."

This had Arthur's interest; he was already straightening up, slipping his hands out of his pockets and bracing his palms against the counter, feeling one of the knobs of the lower cabinet doors dig into his leg. "You mean take a job?"

Cobb smiled. "If it doesn't want you to work, see what happens if you do. At best, it will take your mind off of it. At worst, you'll make a new name for yourself in the dreamshare community!"

But Arthur was ignoring this terrible joke. He had to try and look. He was bound to find something to take his mind off of this! He was going to show it, he was going to show that stupid Voice!

* * *

Eames had only just gotten his first one-word-prompt. He unfolded it, stared at it for ten whole seconds, then laid it on his desk next to his keyboard. Then he began to type.

The word, in Ariadne's unflinching, precise penmanship was, meet-cute.


	5. Chapter 5

A.N: ...I'm clearly a very horrible person- I keep making fun of Inception within the story (particularly for this chapter, the 'the book could be a movie!' comment and so on), I make terrible jokes, and I regularly end with cliffhangers. If I find any really silly mistakes that I missed on my third reading, I will fix them later.

Disclaimer: I don't own Inception or Stranger Than Fiction. I also don't own the poem Eames has tattooed on his wrist- I only learned about that one when I took an English class and saw the first line left up on the board.

When Eames wrote, he had a habit of glancing at the tattoo he'd gotten not long after he'd written his first novel and had learned of it's being accepted for publishing. He stopped typing now to look at it. It was a quote from Gloria Anzaldúa's _Borderlands_ / _La Frontera_ : _The New Mestiza_. The inking had been painful, but he wanted those words to stay on his skin- he felt like he needed to keep them as a reminder, not just of the book or the author, but how it made him feel to read them for the first time.

 _When I write it feels like I'm carving bone._

The entire quote was really a little too long to have on his arm. But looking at the start of it always put him in mind of the rest. In some way, he was creating his face as he continued to write and write and write, giving his main characters what they want, perhaps in an effort to do the same for himself. Not every character was meant to be him, but there were some that rang true or came just too close. Arthur wasn't one of those, though in some ways they shared a couple of similarities. Hardworking, loyal, and if Eames wasn't patting himself on the back too hard he'd also add _intelligent_ to that list. Their differences were were enough to make them their own creatures, to fix them in separate identities.

If they were both real, they could have been cut from the same bolt of cloth, sort of, but in different patterns that shouldn't work, but did. Eames, all about creativity and impulsive decisions was tempered by Arthur's cool, logical thought process. If Arthur thought in black and white, ruler-straight lines, then Eames thought in amorphous splashes of color!

And Eames honestly enjoyed writing about the point man. He was clever, with a dry, biting sense of humor. In a way, Eames was sad that he was getting closer to that ending, despite not following anything that looked like an outline, racing to make his deadline.

But he was also still trying to do what he did best. He was searching for a happy ending.

Eames took a sip of his tea and cracked his knuckles, returning to the paragraphs he'd only just finished, smiling to himself at the scene he'd gotten his stubborn darling into. Because, conflict and the progression of a plot could occur even if his main character did absolutely nothing. Eames had gotten the idea just after the little scene with Cobb. Arthur, Eames could tell, wouldn't like the idea of going on an adventure. He liked structure and plans and having a say in what went on.

And even if the point man decided to start work immediately, even though he'd barely gotten a break after the inception, Eames could work with that. Adventure, defined by the OED as 'an unusual and exciting, typically hazardous, experience or activity' _,_ could happen many ways.

Either an adventure was going to find Arthur or Arthur would end up walking into one himself, unaware of it till the last minute. Arthur was smart and lovely and obstinate. But he was still the main character and wouldn't be able to avoid the plot nudging him along, though Eames's equally stubborn moments of writer's block still popped up, now and then.

Arthur had a destination that he wasn't aware of. Whether he liked it or not, he was going to reach the end.

* * *

Arthur found a job. Then he found another. They were short, simple jobs, but they did the trick.

He worked hard. He proved to himself that he was still in control of his destiny. He wasn't on a damned adventure; this was just business as usual! The Voice was unusually quiet, which Arthur took as a good sign. He didn't screw up _any_ of his jobs by saying anything about the narration, or trying to do anything to block the sound of it (either by speaking louder than usual or creating some kind of background noise), or giving into his greatest desire and _yelling_ at the Voice. He never allowed himself to do that, never. It would make him look nuts.

No one would hire a crazy point man, not even if he had helped complete an inception.

So, when Arthur was pulled in on an extraction, he didn't expect anything to be out of the ordinary. No different than the rumored dream heists on bestselling authors such as J.K Rowling or Stephen King, Arthur's team had been hired to extract the ending of one author's latest novel, which had been under-wraps and stalled for nearly six months.

Arthur discussed his findings and preliminary research with Yvette, the extractor and Peter, the architect. Both were young, actually younger than Arthur physically was, but was still capable of _looking_ that young with a combination of good genes, diet and exercise, and a decent moisturizing regimen. The two twenty-somethings didn't need to know that Arthur had only recently turned thirty, just like they didn't need to know that Arthur occasionally heard a voice, or that he was supposed to be on some kind of an adventure.

"From what I've been able to gather," Arthur said as he passed out the copies of his report to his team, giving them file folders full of concise information about their client as well as their mark, "this author is behind on his latest novel- the publishing company is getting nervous about whether or not he'll be able to pull off another bestseller. They even sent him a second personal assistant to help."

Peter snorted as he accepted his file folder. "What, like he needs _two_ of them running to do his errands while he dithers over writing the next book to appear on the Barnes and Noble clearance rack?"

Arthur narrowed his eyes, bit the inside of his cheek, and counted to ten, silently, in his head. It was nothing to lose his cool over, but it stung, nonetheless. It was a bit rude. Arthur wanted to say something like, _Writing's hard. There's a reason why I'm a point man and you're an architect, so why be a jerk to a perfect stranger?_

But Arthur didn't say that. It wasn't his job to defend the mark. Instead, he said, "No, Peter. The second assistant was to replace the first, who quit."

"You know," Yvette said, shooting Peter an annoyed look. "I've actually looked this guy up. He's good. His books are reviewed well, they sell well, and he's pretty popular. It wouldn't surprise me if one of his books gets made into a movie!"

Arthur had heard that, too. The man was successful. But this lull worried the publishers. They had expected the next hit novel _months ago;_ now they wanted proof that there really was an ending. If his team extracted it and reassured the company that things were going to go smoothly, it would be well-worth their fee. If there wasn't an ending and the author was spinning his wheels, it could give the company the reason they needed to drop the project.

Before Peter could raise his hackles and start to argue this new point with their extractor, Arthur coolly took control. Yvette gave Arthur a subtle, approving nod. It was clear that _she_ got why he was hailed as the best point man. Eyes on the prize, only focused on safety of the team and the success of the job, that was Arthur to a T. Woe to any who screwed with the perfection of a job.

"Peter?" Arthur said, not raising his voice, not becoming aggressive. "If you don't want to be respectful and do your job, you can get out."

Peter stared up at Arthur, who still stood nearby, his own file folder in hand, looking calm and unruffled in comparison- Peter still looked like a twenty-something, dressed casual, eyes as wide as saucers as he finally understood that Arthur was serious. That Arthur didn't play around. Because even though Arthur was projecting his calm, his levelheadedness, the point man's annoyance was present in his eyes and the set of his shoulders. Peter would be stupid to fight with the point man and maybe he finally understood that.

Arthur had been certain that Peter would say something wrong. That he'd start a fight just for the heck of it.

But finally, Peter looked away from Arthur for just a moment, breaking eye contact and muttering something that possibly had a very quickapology thrown in, before sitting up in his chair, opening his folder and getting his head in the game.

Arthur nodded his approval and moved to take a seat, flipping open his own folder and moving to a page he'd marked with a post-it note. "We have a little time to organize, build, and plot," Arthur said, referring to his papers. "The PA is going to be going on a trip fairly soon."

"So he'll be alone," Peter said, looking up at Arthur to gauge his response. Arthur's response was a complete lack of a response. It made Peter suddenly find something minuscule to focus on in his folder.

"We're looking at a fairly flexible extraction if the PA is out of the picture," Yvette commented, also looking at her set of papers. "I expect you'll keep an eye on the situation in case that changes."

Arthur nodded. "From what I've learned so far, it isn't likely that our mark has heard of dreamshare. He's never gone under, he's never been the subject of extraction, and he's never met with an extractor to militarize his subconscious. Regardless, I'll do a thorough investigation to be sure."

"If he's never been exposed to it, we could very well walk into his dreams and _ask_ him," Yvette said with a small smile, as if it were a refreshing idea that she'd not gotten to see in awhile. "If he's open to conversation, we could easily create a dreamscape for a library or even a book signing." Yvette seemed to like the idea of the book signing. "If he's at the signing in his dream, the book is already finished in his mind. I could ask him a question, pose as a fan. Or you could look at the books to see if there's anything written in them..."she said to Arthur.

"It's not likely that he'd have the story committed to memory, word for word," Arthur sighed, knowing from personal experience that recreating books in dreams, that recalling every sentence and all the punctuation was very hard. Books, if anything, became more fluid in dreams. They may retain the physical shape which identified them as books, but once the pages were opened, it wasn't likely for there to be any words on the page. He said as much to Yvette.

She nodded thoughtfully. "But it's a place to start. We have time to work on it. Peter, start drawing up the plans for our first level. And you don't have to set it in a Barnes and Noble if you have a problem with it. Create a beautiful bookstore for our mark to sign books in."

Arthur stood, putting his file folder on his desk in the corner, grabbing his messenger bag and draping it over one shoulder- now, all he looked like was a well dressed man, out for a walk.

When Yvette raised an eyebrow at Arthur's impending departure, he shrugged. "I've done as much research as technology will allow. To learn his comings and goings, I've got to play Mr. Eames's shadow. Refer to the folders for specifics on either the mark or our client; if you need something else, tell me and I'll recover it. Text me if you need me, my phone's on silent."

Then Arthur left their rented work space, Mr. Eames's address safely tucked into his pocket.

* * *

Mr. Eames, previously known for his globetrotting, had decided that he'd immerse himself in the environment his main character would have spent plenty of time in- his Arthur was a California boy, not that anyone would be able to tell if they were listening for the overused pop culture notes of _surfer_ or _valley girl._ While the idea of Arthur had come to him in a dream, the point man's voice had evolved as Eames wrote.

Eames owned his small home for a little over a year as he first worked on his latest main character and then built the story around him like a shelter. The world that Arthur lived in was so similar to Eames's own, but full of strange dream technology and corporate espionage. When he'd first fleshed out the plot, he'd made a note to himself. That Arthur's story made him think of a marriage between James Bond and a science fiction film.

He sighed, pleased with himself.

There was something he was forgetting. Surely. But he wasn't sure what. Maybe it was his book signing that was making him all nostalgic for the process of creating Arthur and his story. Surrounded by shelves and shelves of books, Eames felt better. The story was over. Now, he could breathe.

The bookstore was full of happy people; some were high school or college age, others a little older, but all of them had copies of his book, which they were eager for him to sign!

It wasn't the biggest bookstore, but it had a comfortable, homey air. It reminded him of the bookstores he'd frequent when he was younger- where he'd go hide in the back so he could sit on the floor and read to his heart's content.

Eames went to sit down at the long table that had been set up in the middle of the bookstore, where there was a modest stack of his books sitting near to his left hand. When it came down to this moment, he'd half hoped that Ariadne would come join him- _she'd_ helped him write the most difficult part, after all! When he didn't see her anywhere in the crowd, his heart sank. He already had a pen in his hand and there was someone waiting, smiling brightly and holding a copy of his book which she'd already purchased.

"Hello," Eames said as she carefully set the book down and nudged it towards him, the thin cloth covering the table making a whispering sound as she did so. "Who should I make this out to?"

The young woman, her black hair thin but curling, smiled at him and said clearly, "Yvette." Then as he opened the cover and asked her for the correct spelling, writing _For Yvette_ before finishing with his signature (not so much a signature-signature as four, short slashes of his pen to make a capital E and the number loops it took to finish spelling his last name, one loop per letter).

As he was about to pass it back to her, wish her happy reading, she asked, "I'm sure that you hear this all the time, but my friend over there dared me," she said conspiratorially before gesturing towards the crowd behind her, expecting him to pick out one face among many. "Could you do a reading for us?"

Eames paused. There wasn't anything odd about the request; he'd been asked to read sections of his books before, and if there was time, he'd do it. But there were so many people...

"I promise," Yvette said solemnly, "just a sentence or two? I'd really appreciate it!"

Eames, always and forever, would be softhearted for his fans. "Okay," he said, reaching for the book, opening it up so he could read from the beginning. "Just a sentence or two, then you can go back to your friend and dare him to do something terribly embarrassing."

But she stopped him again, her hand surprisingly firm as she lay it against the title page, the front matter section with copyright information. Her hand obscured the page and Eames began to feel the first flickers of annoyance. Something was wrong.

"Pick a number between _two hundred_ and _three hundred and six._ " Yvette said this urgently, as Eames began to notice how the other people waiting to get their books signed were...agitated. The one closest to Yvette had shoved at her shoulder, not softly, never politely once it had gotten to the level of shoving, but hard enough to make her jump and try to shift away. Now when she looked at Eames, there was an edge to her. Her desperation was like a sound too low to be heard by the human ear. It made Eames feel even more uncomfortable.

Eames opened the book, not bothering to look for the exact page numbers she'd mentioned. A cold shiver went down his spine as he realized his ending wasn't there. The pages didn't have anything on them, but he kept swearing that he'd see little dark lines disappearing and reappearing as he attempted to flip the pages.

Curious, Eames carefully kept the book open to the last, damnably blank page while holding the others in his free hand. Then he let the pages fall quickly, turning his book into a flip book.

And there it was! At a higher speed, the lines became more pronounced; they were starting to form _words._

Eames looked as a message began to be transmitted from the ether to the paper as the pages continued to move, getting closer and closer to the very first page.

It said:

 ** _Get._**

 ** _Down._**

 ** _Mr. Eames!_**

Then, his crowd of fans rushed forwards, howling like a demented mob! Yvette didn't have a chance, but Eames, shielded by the table, had barely a second's worth of breathing room, crouching on the ground but needing to get the hell out of there!

He heard the sound of gunfire; the firecracker _pop-pop-pop_ of someone close by, busy unloading a clip into the biting, clawing frenzy.

Then Eames felt the pressure of someone's hand against his shoulder. The author was yanked up to his feet and forced to run to a backroom he hadn't noticed before, though, honestly, he was getting kind of fuzzy as to how he'd made it to the signing in the first place.

As they were separated from the horde by a door that had a lock, but was really only a thin barrier and easily torn down, Eames took this short breather to look his rescuer in the face. And then Eames stared.

He'd drawn that face. Eames panned his gaze down the other man's body, knowing that he'd sketched that dynamic, lean figure. He'd thought about how underrated brown eyes were, when he could have chosen green or blue instead, only to find the same eyes blinking back at him.

This man was Arthur. This brown-eyed man, this wonder in tailored pants; he was really there!

"Oh my," Eames began. He was hardly able to complete what's become an everyday, casual blasphemy that his mother, had she still been alive, would have made him wash his mouth out with soap for daring to utter! "You're here! Am I- am I dreaming?"

Arthur was busy efficiently sliding another clip into his Glock 17.

"Yes," said the point man that Eames had apparently dreamed to life.

Eames was more than surprised. He was beyond surprised. He was possessed with one thought and one thought alone.

"Don't take this the wrong way, I don't do this when I first meet someone in the flesh, but I've been thinking of this for a very, very long time!"

And then, without further warning, Eames gently cupped Arthur's face in his hands and kissed him. It was short-lived. Pleasant, but short-lived.

The door to the back was broken by the improvised battering ram the table had made- the horde of angry people, what must have been _projections_ if this dream took place in the same reality as Arthur's, clambered in, ready to engulf the kissing pair.

Eames pulled his mouth away from Arthur's just long enough to whisper, "Meet-cute has been accomplished, darling. How are you liking your adventure?"

Arthur's eyes widened, his face paled, and whatever he was going to say was drowned out by the screaming projections.

The crowd descended on them both. That was the last thing Eames remembered before waking up.


	6. Chapter 6

A.N: And here's where the story gets interesting. I'm having so much fun writing this! Once again, thanks for all the lovely reviews and kudos!

If I missed an error or weird typo, I'll be sure to fix it soon!

Disclaimer: I don't own Inception or Stranger Than Fiction.

Usually, when something goes wrong on a job, something like the projections going nuts or your extractor getting ripped to pieces, it really only leaves one course of action.

When Arthur awoke, not even flinching as the phantom shadow of his death in the dream flickered and then faded out as he regained his grip on reality, he did exactly what a point man _wasn't_ supposed to do. He didn't run from the scene, hastily grabbing the PASIV and rushing to follow his team, to leave before the mark woke up.

By the time Arthur had gotten off the floor, slipping the needle from his arm and letting the IV tubing coil on the carpet next to the PASIV, he'd heard the front door slam shut. Yvette, the first to die in the dream would have woken up and sounded the alarm to Peter, who had chosen to stand watch over them as they dreamed. They would have run out together, every dreamsharer for themselves.

Arthur was alone. Mr. Eames was just barely fluttering his eyes open, the sedative (far too light, Arthur had warned) wearing off as the man twitched and tried to lift his head, still prone on his living room floor.

Arthur stared at the author. He stared. He couldn't help it. He was busy going over in his mind what the man's voice had sounded like in the dream as he talked to Arthur about meet-cutes and adventures.

In the short time he'd spent tailing the author, Arthur hadn't had much of a chance to hear the man talk- Arthur had to be more than several feet away. He had to be nobody. Just a face in the crowd or a fellow coffee-shop patron in a line. The closest Arthur had been to Eames was when he was acting the part of _the guy taking a ride on the bus, sitting a few seats away, pretending to play Sudoku._ Arthur took pride in not drawing attention to himself, only observing the mark's habits and routines.

Yet, here he was, gawking at the man who was slowly coming to.

When Arthur spotted a nearby chair and some extension cords, he took action.

* * *

Eames was trussed up in one of his hard-backed wooden chairs, still kind of foggy as to how he'd gotten into it. The knots were strong, but not so tight as to cut off the circulation to his hands (which were bound to the arms of the chair) or his ankles (which had been bound to the legs). He blinked down at his mismatched socks and tried to remember how he'd gotten stuck in the chair like that- he wasn't so great at tying knots, nor could he have tied all of them himself.

He frowned and looked over at the man who must have done it. Must have because he was sitting in the other chair, more or less directly across from him. And he had a gun, too.

"I'm..." Eames started to say it, then blinked again. Why was talking so hard? "I'm awake?"

"Yes," the man said, mirror image to the man Eames was _certain_ had saved him in the dream. Then a few more bits of that dream came back to him.

Eames blushed, just a little, just a tiny bit. "You know, I'm sorry. I'm really, truly sorry. When I said _I don't do this when I first meet someone in the flesh,_ I should have probably added _in dreams_ , _either_." Eames cleared his throat. "Its just, its not every day that your main character just walks into your dreams. But I got ahead of myself, it was rude, and I'm sorry."

"Shut up."

Eames frowned. "Does this mean you won't accept my apology?"

"I said," the man, who must be Arthur, who had to be Arthur, grit his teeth like he was biting down on a half a dozen other things he could be saying, but wouldn't. "Shut up."

Rather than be contrary and start talking again, goading the man who so clearly resembled his main character into using that gun, Eames sat quietly for two minutes. One hundred and twenty seconds of silence.

When the two minutes were over, Eames said, "My mother was fond of such sayings like 'when life gives you lemons you make lemonade'. She also taught me to be a good host. So we _could_ sit here, me tied to this chair and you pointing that gun at me. Or we could go to the kitchen, have some tea, and speak reasonably."

Surprisingly, Arthur re-holstered the gun, pulled a box-cutter he'd no doubt borrowed from Eames's toolbox, and moved to cut Eames's bonds, saying, "If you do a single bit of narration, I'll shoot you in the foot."

* * *

Eames didn't get shot in the foot.

After boiling the water, letting Arthur choose whichever tea he liked best, and offering him something to eat _with_ his tea, Eames realized he was still in shock. A little bit.

He couldn't take his eyes off of the point man. He _knew_ that Arthur would choose an earl grey! He _knew_ that Arthur wouldn't say no to the madeleines!

After writing Arthur for so long, he was seeing the man in the flesh! How could this possibly be real?

When they had each gotten half a cup of tea down, Eames decided to broach the question.

"How did you find me?"

"Complete accident," Arthur said over the lip of his cup. After a moment he let it rest on the table, pausing so he could stare back at Eames, too. "I took this job without knowing it would lead me to you. I hadn't heard you in weeks..."

" _Heard?_ You mentioned something about narrating, before, but I was distracted by you threatening to shoot me in the foot."

Rather than go round and round on the _but what do you mean- I didn't know you we're real- this is so strange_ carousel, Arthur explained about the Voice and the narration.

"I've been hearing your voice," Arthur said as he carefully dipped another madeleine into his tea. "You've been _narrating_. You've come and gone. And now, you've reappeared suddenly, dooming me to go on an adventure." Arthur narrowed his eyes at the author, aware of how ridiculous this was sounding. "I was fine, you know. I was just taking a break. Am I not allowed to take a break?"

"But I have to finish the story," Eames said, pushing his tea cup away, really wanting to reach out over his small table and pat the back of Arthur's hand, reassuringly. Very _there-there, this will all turn out okay_. "That was what your little team was trying to figure out, yes? My publishing company was paying you to verify the existence of the ending to your story?"

A look passed over Arthur's face; it was hard to describe. Arthur was kind of insulted.

"Not _my_ story," Arthur corrected him, shortly. " _Your_ story. It's going to keep me up at night. Trying to figure out how you found out all these little things about me, found out anything about my work, about my remaining friends!"

Eames perked up. "You mean the Squint? He's real, too?"

"Yes. He's real. His children are real. His wife was real, and she died, so I suppose it doesn't make her any less real, just not present any longer. Dreamshare is real. I'm real." Arthur used the flat of his hand, smacking himself against the chest, demonstrating his solidity, his presence. _"I'm real."_

"I'm not arguing with what I see," Eames said. "But I had a dream, featuring this _idea_ about you- the clever, dream-thief Arthur- well over a year ago. I dreamed you up, but here you sit!"

Arthur, while not coming unhinged, was not accepting this news willingly. He was going to fight it. "I didn't emerge from your head, fully formed like Athena! I've got parents! Great parents and a little sister who drove me nuts when I was a kid! I have memories of my childhood, my days in school, and my brief time in the military! If what you say is true, if even some of it is true, I'm going to have to face the ugliest question a dreamsharer will have to ask..." Arthur licked his lips and peeked into the depths of his cup, now empty. "That this isn't reality. That I didn't really help complete the inception. That I'm trapped in Limbo and that this is all just a crazy, infinitely long dream that the entire team is lost in."

"You're not in Limbo, love," Eames thought to say, wanting to soothe the point man's worries. "You'd know that. That's what your totem's for."

Arthur shook his head. "My totem will only tell me if I'm stuck in someone else's dream. Not mine. And since I've been hearing your voice, since I've _met_ you, wouldn't it be a fair assumption to make? That I'm trapped in my version of Limbo, that I'm waiting for the kick that isn't coming?"

Eames wanted to wipe that look off of Arthur's face- that hopeless look didn't belong there. Arthur wasn't in Limbo! That wasn't in any of Eames's outlines, even the newest ones. No, Arthur was in reality. The fact that he'd come face-to-face with the author of his story was another issue, best solved later, when Eames was sure that Arthur wasn't going to jump off a building or shoot himself in the head. That would be tragic.

Now Eames really did reach out and reassuringly pat Arthur's hand. "You mustn't be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling."

Hearing those words, Arthur laughed, not happy at the moment, but not exactly sad either. He just looked very tired. "I can't believe it. You're trying to make me feel better with lines of dialogue from-," and to stop himself from saying _my_ or _your_ , he said instead, "the story. That forger _did_ sound a bit like you, now that I think of it."

Eames could have said something about the forger and his failure to get Arthur interested in said forger, but he was now thinking about tragedies. He knew that Arthur wasn't in one- tragedies didn't have happy endings, and even though Arthur's story had lacked an ending for awhile now, maybe this forced adventure and Arthur's awareness of Eames as his author, could work in their favor.

Because Eames now had what every author dreamed of- he had access to his main character, he could speak to him, and figure out what the man wanted most. Eames could give Arthur a happy ending (not euphemistically).


	7. Chapter 7

A.N: I got a fortune cookie that said, "Tomorrow your creative side will shine forth with exceptional ideas." So even though the writing didn't happen the day after getting the fortune, I figured that I'd be just as creative when I had a some free time! As I write more and more, I discover just how sappy I am. It's like maple syrup runs through my veins.

If I missed any strange, annoying, elusive spelling errors, I will fix them!

Disclaimer: I don't own Inception or Stranger Than Fiction.

Before leaving, Arthur gave Eames his phone number. "You're narrating less," Arthur said, refusing to feel uncomfortable with the situation despite how unreal it felt. Either he was dreaming or he wasn't. Either he was in Limbo or he wasn't. He needed more data. "I'd assume that means you haven't been writing anything new?"

Eames had been looking at the number Arthur was scribbling on a page of his Moleskine. The point man's handwriting was sharp-edged and quick. Arthur tore the page out and offered it to Eames, who took it.

"Yes," Eames said, taking his eyes off of the number and folding the paper neatly. "My PA had business to take care of- I've been taking a little break in the meantime."

"I know."

Eames didn't look surprised. That took some of Arthur's discomfort away. Not all of it, considering he'd practically stalked this author to learn his habits, had learned of his PA's unavoidable trip; that it was something time consuming and would give his team all the time they needed to perform the extraction. After doing some more digging, Arthur had learned that the trip was to attend a baby-shower for this woman's older sister, that she'd be gone for a day or maybe two, despite the sister living fairly close. It was possible that the woman didn't see family all that often. From everything Arthur had discovered about her, this Ariadne was busy. Successful at her job but busy. He'd even found a picture or two of her online and found a disturbing similarity between the PA and the only Ariadne he knew; the one he had once spent a concerning evening trying to remember how he'd forgotten her name. It was yet another oddity related to this author and the story he still hadn't finished yet.

So Arthur was pointedly _not_ asking about Eames's PA named Ariadne or if there was any relation to _his_ Ariadne. He wanted to, but didn't. There would be time to learn more about that. It was more important to deal with the fact that someone Arthur had never met before or heard of, had been writing about him. That _this_ was the man who had been narrating the events of the Fischer job, the voice only _Arthur_ could hear.

Until he got more answers, until he figured this out, the point man wasn't ruling out his having fallen down into Limbo _or_ plain, non-PASIV related, mental illness.

Eames cleared his throat, slipping the folded piece of paper into his shirt pocket, patting it twice to reassure himself that it was still there.

"Aside from how jarring this entire thing has been, it was a pleasure to meet you. I'm glad you stayed for tea, Arthur." Eames was still unsure of how he was to conduct himself after everything that had just happened. This failed extraction had put Arthur in his path but it could also allow his publishers to drop the unfinished novel. Eames tried not to worry, to think positive.

Arthur had already packed his PASIV, had returned Eames's boxcutter and promised to repay him for the extension cords. He definitely caught the look passing over Eames's face as the author showed him to the door.

"We didn't find anything, but I warned Yvette that it was a gambit that didn't work well," Arthur reassured Eames, wondering at the strangeness of his reassuring the man before him. He didn't reassure his marks."If either of them approach the client and try to say otherwise, I'll know."

This made Eames smile a little. "Because you truly are the best point man in dreamshare, aren't you?"

Arthur shrugged, not self-conscious about his title. He was the best, full stop. Eames also knew Arthur was the best; apparently he'd also _written_ Arthur to be the best. Arthur didn't want to examine the ideas closely; at this time, he wasn't sure if Eames's story was what really made the him the best in his field or if it was due to his hard work and years of practice as a point man. Thinking that his life wasn't his own, that his skills were just a series of attributes this man had plucked out of the air and attached to the character of Arthur, would only make him feel less in control. So Arthur just agreed with Eames and let his worries rest.

"I'll be in contact," Arthur said, reaching out to shake Eames's hand. At first, the author was hesitant, but readily clasped his main character's hand. It was only polite.

"It would probably be in your best interest for my novel to never be finished or even published," Eames said as he shook Arthur's hand, a nice firm handshake, businesslike. The point man's hand was warm, slightly calloused, but pleasant. For a second, Eames didn't want to let go. "You could just walk away from this..."

Arthur, still tired, concerned, and worried about what everything meant, said nothing at first. He slipped from the author's loosening grip and moved to let himself out. "I may still not be sure if this is really happening, but I'm pretty clear about the rules you've set- whether I like it or not, I'm on an adventure. I'm your main character. I could keep fighting it or I could just steer into the skid and see where you take me."

Eames stared. "I just want to know what will make you happy, Arthur."

"You've said as much, before. You say things about me like _'someday he would live for himself and work for himself and maybe he'd be happy'._ " Arthur frowned a little, saying, "I'm not sure how I feel about that _maybe_ you tossed in there. Work _does_ make me happy."

"I wrote it that way because you were stuck with the Squint," Eames admitted. "You were just trailing after him, trying to clean up his messes and get him home. That wasn't what you wanted, it was what you were willing to do for someone else. It's a wonderful aspect of your personality- you're so loyal, you _care_ , but saving your friend was inhibiting your ability to lead your own life, to do the things you like, to do whatever you wanted!" Eames explained, becoming more certain as he spoke, watching Arthur's reactions, hoping for some hint that he was doing it right. That this was the way to the end, that he was closer to what Arthur wanted. Because who cared if this sounded unreal? Who cared if this was reality, Limbo, or Wonderland? Eames had always been emotionally invested in his characters. And Arthur was special. Arthur was a living dream in the light of day. Arthur was a living, breathing, feeling person who wasn't a puppet for Eames to manipulate.

Arthur hadn't opened the door yet. He just leaned against it, looking at Eames seriously. "You want me to be happy?"

Eames nodded quickly. "You've helped your friend return home. You've become the best in your field. You helped complete an inception! When I did the first dozen outlines and created the master outline, I thought that your story would end when the Squint got home. But here you are!" Eames faltered a little. "You're here now. You're not in my head. You're not a product of my imagination. I shouldn't have this much power over your life, Arthur. If I'm having this much of an issue over writing something that would make you happy, think of what it would be like if I was an author that kills off their main characters!"

Arthur raised his eyebrows and considered this. "You don't have any plans to kill me, right?"

"No!"

"Okay, fine, don't shout." Arthur said, his voice even and calm. Eames apologized, took a deep breath and let Arthur continue. "Your PA isn't coming back till tomorrow, right?"

"You already know that."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Yes, but I wanted to be sure. No sudden changes of plan?"

Once he was certain that Ariadne the PA would be back the day after next, like scheduled, Arthur came up with a simple plan.

"Don't write anything tomorrow. I know that you have a deadline, but wait for the PA to come back."

"Why?"

Arthur was still waiting at the door, holding his PASIV tightly like a totem, feeling reassured by it's weight. It may not have been a good sign of reality, but at least it was a piece of something Arthur considered familiar. He felt grounded, stable. He needed that considering what he was about to ask.

"I would like to hang out with you."

Eames stared for a second.

"You know me as the character of a story, as the guy you dreamed up. Not as a person, really. It would also let me get to know you as more than a narrating voice or the mark I was hired to steal something from. And..." Arthur trailed off a little, maybe uncertain, thinking twice about what he was going to say next.

"And?" Eames asked, gently urging Arthur to finish his thought.

"It would make me happy," Arthur said, offering Eames a smile before he left. "I'll call you."

* * *

After Arthur had left, the door clicking shut, Eames stared at the closed door for a moment, thinking that the point man would come back in. No, _wanting_ him to come back in. _Wishing_ he'd come back in.

Eames was amazed.

"I really am in a meet-cute," Eames said to himself. He wasn't able to shake the image of Arthur's brief smile, the way it lit up his face. And the dimples? That quick, endearing flash of dimples? Sure, he knew that Arthur had dimples. He had written about them somewhere. But it was different to be in front of the point man when he smiled. So nice, he wished he'd taken a picture.

Eames blinked and then turned on the spot, away from the door because Arthur wasn't going to come back today. Eames moved to his desk, which didn't have his computer on it, which had nothing related to writing on it. He opened a drawer and pulled out a unused sketchpad and flipped it open to the very first page, picking up a freshly sharpened pencil.

Then, Eames began to work; not on writing a story, but drawing a smile he'd like to see a little more of.


	8. Chapter 8

A.N: I'm killing myself with cute. And I still make the worst jokes.

Disclaimer: I don't own Inception or Stranger Than Fiction.

If I made any silly errors that I missed on the third reading, I'll get them later.

Though Arthur had asked Eames not to do any writing, he had half-hoped for some narration to explain why in the hell he said what he said.

So, after Arthur had finished brushing his teeth, the mechanical whirring of his electric toothbrush automatically stopping after two minutes of meticulous scrubbing, Arthur spat out a mouthful of foam, rinsed, then looked at his reflection in the mirror above the sink and began to narrate to himself.

"Arthur, like an idiot, had said that getting to know Mr. Eames, the author of his story, the Voice which had so diligently narrated his actions before, during, and after the inception, would make him _happy_."

The point man turned on the tap, narrating to himself, " _But what did that even mean?_ Arthur wondered to himself as he rinsed the worn bristles of the electric toothbrush-head. Was he happy because he'd found the man behind the mysterious, disembodied voice? Was he happy because he'd learn more about the story he was in or was he just happy to have something, anything, interesting to occupy his time after completing the inception?"

He turned off the water and tapped the clean toothbrush against the sink, removing any lingering droplets of water before setting it on the charging base that rested on the washstand next to the electrical outlet, so the toothbrush would be charged and ready for use tomorrow morning when he woke up.

"Arthur left the bathroom, already dressed for bed, but wondering if he'd hear from Mr. Eames as an omniscient, voice of god, narrator..."

Arthur paused his own narration, standing in his bedroom, dressed in sweats and a light t-shirt. He was frowning because his choice of the word _omniscient_ didn't fit. Omniscient meant 'all knowing'. Maybe during certain parts of the story, Eames had been the omniscient narrator, but now, he didn't appear to know everything. Like, he hadn't known that Arthur was a real person, a real dream criminal. He hadn't known how the story would end or what would make Arthur happy, either.

Maybe, he'd learn that other main characters Mr. Eames had written in the past, thinking they were fictional characters, were actually real, too. Arthur's frown deepened.

It wasn't a problem he'd solve in a night. It wasn't a problem he wanted to think of right now. He needed to sleep, he needed to rest, he needed to be functional for what tomorrow would bring.

Turning off the lamp at his bedside, Arthur crawled into his bed, snuggling in, and trying his best to shut off the stupid, stupid feeling he'd experienced when saying goodbye to the man who may or may not be responsible for Arthur's success as a point man, the man who always pronounced Arthur's name with such fondness, it made him want to blush.

Arthur wasn't blushing now. He hadn't been blushing before, either. He couldn't help but feel _something_ when he was around this Mr. Eames.

If this were something Arthur could narrate away, taking control of his story, he would do so immediately. So he tried it.

"Arthur smoothed out the blanket, as if a wrinkled blanket would matter later in the night. For now Arthur was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. He had no idea what it meant. None at all. But there was some comfort to be had in being able to match a voice to a face." Arthur shut his eyes and sighed. "A very handsome face. Damn it."

 _Damn it all,_ Arthur thought as he pulled the blanket up to cover most of his face, reminiscent of what he'd done before as he'd heard Eames's narration informing him of his upcoming adventure. This time, he wasn't covering up from horror. He wasn't muffling curses with his blanket. Arthur was trying to _not_ imagine the author's face; his surprise when Arthur said what he said _, my god what was wrong with him!?_

"I said 'it would make me happy'," Arthur, no longer narrating, groused from beneath the covers; as if there was an unbroken covenant and the stupid things Arthur said would be kept secret so long as he said it while beneath his blanket. "Since when do I sound like such an idiot?"

Arthur wondered if his definition of _happy_ had changed somewhere along the line. What would it take to make him happy now? Arthur was worried less about what could make him happy and more about whether or not he was a real person, anymore. He'd been trying to ignore it, push it away, but his initial ideas about being trapped in Limbo were becoming more attractive when compared to his not being real, period.

If he were in Limbo, stuck with a projection he'd created to give him some sense of purpose, some reason for continuing on by following a plot or reaching an ending, there was a chance, however slight, that he could wake someday. Granted, he might end up waking crazy and senile, with the rest of the team no better.

If he were in Limbo, it would make sense that he was rationalizing the bizarre world he'd been building- the inception working out with all of them getting out alive _had_ to be on par with a world that was just a construction, a fiction, written by a bestselling novelist. That an inception was as impossible as he'd warned Cobb in the first place.

Arthur sighed. He was just winding himself up, tighter and tighter. Losing himself in the complicated 'if this were a dream and I'm stuck in Limbo' non-logic, trying to understand what was happening. He'd steer into the skid, his sense of self-preservation demanded it, but he was worried that this would only end in bitter disappointment and having to kill himself just to get back to the waking world. If this world _wasn't_ the real world, of course.

Arthur pulled the blanket away from his face, needing that shock of fresh, slightly chilly air. He turned to look at his bedside table, where he'd left his totem when he'd gone to change his clothes and wash up before bed. He knew the number that would tell him if he were stuck in someone else's dream, all he'd have to do is find a flat surface and give the die a roll. Or he could be reassured by the weight of the loaded die, able to feel it with his hand, squeeze it hard so the sharp edges of the acrylic cube would dig into his palm. But he didn't trust his totem, not right now.

Arthur's phone, which was sitting next to the totem, began to light up, vibrating with a buzz along the top of the bedside table. Arthur narrowed his eyes, watching as the noise was repeated, the lights flashing again. He was receiving a text. Two, actually. Arthur should have turned off the phone before climbing into bed, he would have normally, but he was so tired.

There was a chance that it could be anyone trying to text him. Maybe Cobb, maybe anyone else from the team. Arthur wasn't sure what he'd say to Ariadne, if it was her. Arthur took a chance and reached over to the table, plucked up the still glowing cellphone and noticed that both of the texts were from a number he didn't recognize.

Arthur opened the first, reading the message in the dark with only the light from the screen to see by.

unknown number: ...just me, Eames, trying your number. So no need to reply, Arthur. I'd forgotten to give you mine.

Before Arthur checked the second message, he added the unknown number to his phone, typing the name _Eames_ into his contact list. Now the texts were identified as being from Eames. It made Arthur smile a little as he read the second text.

Eames: Knowing you as well as I do, at this point, at least, I'd guess that you're hiding in the dark, confronting serious dreamshare issues that could explain what's happening to us. Because I do think it's happening to both of us. For all we know, someone is writing a story about me writing a story about you! What I'm trying to say is, let's not jump to conclusions. Is it sad that I'm hoping you haven't talked yourself out of us spending the day together tomorrow?

Arthur was still smiling as he reread Eames's last message. The man was being _sweet_. How could Arthur fight against _sweet_ and _handsome?_

Arthur: It's charming.

Arthur cringed to himself for hitting send too soon. He quickly texted another message.

Arthur: Sorry, ignore that I used the word _charming_. That's not something one says in a text. Arthur: It wasn't very professional of me, I apologize. Eames: Don't be sorry. I could ignore it, but I won't lie. I'm very flattered you feel that way, darling. Eames: You're professional _and_ charming. Please don't ignore it. And if it worries you, when we see each other tomorrow we'll start the day by trading compliments over how charming we are. We'll flip a coin to see who goes first. I choose tails!

Arthur was tempted to pinch himself...was he- was he _flirting_ with Eames? Was he being flirted with? Arthur would deny it to his last breath (and if he counted every last breath he'd ever experienced when dying in a dream, that gave him lots of chances to deny it), but this ridiculousness was kind of fun. Bantering or flirting, maybe both, could be their sort of thing. Professionalism probably didn't matter. Arthur smiled and sent another text.

Arthur: How does 8 a.m. sound for breakfast? Eames: Sounds lovely. I won't forget to bring that coin, too. Arthur: Till then, Eames. Eames: Good night, Arthur.

Arthur stared at the choppy little blocks of messages- his and Eames's back and forth conversation. They were going to breakfast. They would see each other tomorrow.

Arthur put his phone back on the bedside table, rolling over so he wouldn't be tempted to look at it. Eames wasn't going to send him another message, Arthur was sure of that, but it didn't stop him from hoping.

He ignored it- he concentrated on relaxing. On resting. On closing his eyes and drifting off. Eventually, Arthur fell into a nice dreamless sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

A.N: Yes, so the jacket Arthur wears is the jacket from the first level of the Fischer job- I love that jacket! Please enjoy the not-a-date (which we all know is a date)! The word game that Eames plays is actually one that I regularly play...I'm very strange.

Disclaimer: I don't own Inception or Stranger Than Fiction.

If I missed a glaringly horrible error, I apologize. After accidentally deleting a previous Chp 9 draft, I kind of tossed caution into the wind.

It was 8 a.m. A little past that, Arthur noticed as he looked at his watch, waiting outside of the restaurant he'd texted Eames about earlier. The author had assured him that he'd have no problem getting there, that he was eager to see Arthur, too!

Arthur wasn't going to do any of the cliched things a person waiting for their guest would do- Arthur didn't tap his foot on the pavement, he didn't pace, and he didn't try to call or text (either annoyingly or frantically). Being a minute or two late wasn't something to freak out over.

Arthur also hadn't woken at the crack of dawn just to jump in and out of several outfits, trying to decide which outfit would be nicest, which outfit would impress Eames the most. No, Arthur had already known what he was going to wear. Not a suit. As wonderful as he looked in them, as much as he enjoyed a good suit, Arthur was going casual for his _not-a-date_ with Eames.

Because that was what he'd decided to call this...thing. He had to dress appropriately it, though he'd never really thought about what _not-a-date_ appropriate attire actually entailed. So he decided dressing casual would be a good start.

He chose nice jeans, not sun bleached or so obviously new that it either looked like he never wore them or had only just bought them in a bid to not wear a suit. Arthur wanted to be comfortable. And, though Arthur purposely didn't think of it when he pulled them on this morning, these jeans had the extra benefit of making his ass look _fantastic_.

Wearing this particular outfit; the combination of _those_ jeans, his simple white button up, one which didn't require cufflinks, tucked in at the waist, _no tie_ , and the brown leather jacket he'd slipped on as an afterthought when he caught the weather forecast. Arthur's hair wasn't even slicked back.

Arthur had wanted to look _good_. Casual, but good. Attractive. For his _not-a-date_ with Eames. Who was now five minutes late...

Arthur frowned, slipping one hand into his pocket to reach for his cellphone, thinking, _Maybe one text wouldn't hurt..._

"Arthur!"

The point man looked up sharply at the sound of his name being shouted from further down the street.

And there was Eames.

The author, having just hopped off of a bus half-a-block away, was waving at the point man, who still had one hand in his pocket, touching his phone. After a second, Arthur waved back at Eames using his free hand, supposing that this wasn't such a bad pose for him- despite how he'd begun to feel when he'd noticed Eames was late, Arthur knew that he looked calm. Cool even, as he leaned against the the enclosure for the restaurant's outdoor seating, Arthur would be willing to describe himself as _leisurely debonair_.

The point man smiled as Eames arrived, all minute traces of worry gone as Eames stood before him, just a little out of breath from jogging over.

"Sorry," Eames said, taking a breath before continuing. "At first I was going to ride my bike here, but didn't think helmet-hair was a nice sight first thing in the morning."

Arthur could understand. It looked like Eames had done something similar to Arthur- he too had woken up early, took a shower, and dressed with care. Eamesian care, but care none-the-less. He was still wearing something that looked like a thrift-store find, something vintage, but it was all neat and clean. It appeared that he had wanted to make an impression on Arthur, as well.

Something about that made Arthur loosen up a little- that he wasn't the only one slightly worried about looking good, being presentable. They were on even ground.

"It's okay," Arthur replied, noticing the care Eames had taken with his appearance, nodding in approval. "I was going to say it, but you _did_ mention that we'd need to do a coin toss to see who goes first so..."

Eames's eyes lit up and he dug into his pocket and produced a shiny quarter. "I'm tails."

"I recall."

"Care to see if its two-headed or two-tailed?"

"I don't think you'd cheat me. Go ahead and flip the coin so we can go to breakfast."

Eames did as Arthur asked, flipping the coin, catching it as it spun in the air and slapping it down on the back of his hand. He took a peek, carefully lifting his palm and smiling to himself. He then lifted his hand away and offered to show Arthur the result.

The coin landed heads facing up.

"You," Arthur said, still leaning against the enclosure, "are ridiculously charming, Mr. Eames."

"Can I quote you on that?"

"No. You already have a text."

Eames almost pouted. "But the text doesn't say 'ridiculously charming', Arthur!"

Arthur raised an eyebrow and waited.

"I won't forget that you said it," Eames said as he pocketed the coin. "I'll always remember." Then, he smiled for Arthur and said, "Darling, you look very charming today. Suitless, but charming."

"Suitless isn't a word. Its not in the Oxford _or_ Scrabble dictionary."

"I'm a writer, I make up words all the time. Doesn't change the fact that you're _very_ charming. And I love your jacket."

Arthur nodded, thoroughly complimented. "Thank you. Let's get inside before we do something we regret."

"Like what?"

Arthur, who had begun walking up the little path to the front entrance of the restaurant, didn't stop. Eames began trailing after him, question still unanswered.

Arthur was working without a plan. Keeping Eames's story in mind, Arthur was at the moment unscripted and pretty much plot-less except for this idea of his being on an adventure. At the moment Arthur didn't know how to answer Eames's question. Eames hadn't been too specific about what kind of an adventure Arthur was meant to be taking. Maybe this was something Arthur had to decide for himself. That if he was going along with the idea of an adventure, he may as well attempt to direct it, to encourage it towards something he wanted, even if he wasn't sure what that was yet. He was more certain than ever that he wanted it to be something meaningful. Something fun.

He looked over his shoulder and smiled at Eames again. "At the moment, that would be missing breakfast. They've got really good Eggs Benedict here."

The look on Eames's face was priceless- the slow blink, partially open mouth, and very light blush across his cheeks. It was clear he'd briefly forgotten about breakfast. Arthur had charmed the heck out of him; he wasn't sure if the man had gotten a look at the jeans yet, but that was okay. They were spending the day together and there was time.

Then the look disappeared and Eames was back. "Excellent," the author said, following Arthur as the point man led the way inside the restaurant. "I'm starving."

* * *

The breakfast was good. The coffee was also good. The atmosphere was light and pleasant, with few diners present to watch as Arthur and Eames sat across from each other in a booth and traded questions that probably made no sense to anyone listening.

"Okay, okay, next one," Arthur said as he added more cream to his fresh cup of coffee. "Chocolate or peanut butter?"

Eames snorted into his cup, putting it down and pushing it away with the tips of his fingers. "If I'm on a deserted island, how did I get my hands on chocolate or peanut butter?"

"You're the author. You write for a living. It's not about how it got there, just which you'd choose!"

"Chocolate is good, but I like it nice and bitter. Did I get a care package of dark chocolate dropped on my island via parachute?"

Arthur thought about it before nodding. "Sure. Some kind soul had the resources to send a plane flying over your island to offer you chocolate but not to rescue you. I'm wondering about your priorities, Eames."

"I'm an author," Eames reminded the point man, repeating what he'd said before. "I write for a living. I'm also pretty eccentric- why wouldn't I go live on a deserted island to write? I'd _need_ chocolate, then."

Arthur was satisfied with this argument. As zany as it was, it made sense. Arthur didn't sneak in another question, about whether or not the kind person who sent the plane was, for example, Mr. Saito. It was on Arthur's list of _Things to Double Check With Eames_ , comparing Arthur's reality with Eames's to see if there was anything that even vaguely meshed, like with Eames's PA.

"My turn," Eames said, thinking of his next question for Arthur. He smiled when he settled on it. "So you're working an impossible job and have a choice for one of two things to go wrong on your level. Running through a freak rainstorm because you forgot to use the restroom or zero-gravity fighting with projections?" Eames fought to make his expression as innocent as possible.

Arthur shook his head. "I said inception was off the table. I meant the events of the inception, as well. If you're going to give me dreamshare styled questions, you've got to use some imagination."

Rather than fight him on it, Eames agreed. "How about I stay out of dreamshare for now? New _W_ _ould You Rather_ topic! Arthur, you're now stuck on my deserted island."

Arthur frowned at him. "I wouldn't get stuck on a deserted island, Eames."

"Too capable to get stuck on some spit of sand in the middle of the ocean?" Eames asked. "You don't like sailing, have never taken a cruise, don't like the water?"

"I just wouldn't. If I were to get stuck on a deserted island, I'd have to have been knocked out and abandoned there by someone who really doesn't like me..."

"Ooh, your enemies gathered together, overtook you, and left you to die?"

"Not good," Arthur admitted, "but unfortunately possible in my line of work." Arthur shrugged. "Okay, I accept your premise. By some twist of fate, I've been left on your deserted island. What now?"

Eames considered this. "The island has some, but not a lot of resources. Do you find a way to support yourself on the island or do you try to find a way off of it?"

Arthur stared. "Do you expect me to rescue you?"

"It's not necessary, but it would be a nice thought."

Arthur considered his options carefully, taking a sip of his coffee, noticing that it had finally gotten cool enough to drink.

"I'd do what I had to to survive on the island- if pressed, I can boil seawater so I won't stress your own source of fresh water. I'd assume that the main food source would be fish of some kind. And no, I won't steal your chocolate."

Eames nodded, approving of Arthur's choices. "Very nice of you as a guest on my deserted island, darling."

It was Arthur's turn again. "Paper or ink? Which would you choose if you had a chance to get more writing supplies?"

"If I choose the paper, does that mean I have to work out sharpening my pencils with a dull knife, or something like that?"

"If I'm there, I'll make sure the knife isn't dull." Arthur rolled his eyes. "Would I have to teach you survival skills, too?"

"Not your turn, darling," Eames said, still considering his choices.

* * *

"You can't be serious," Arthur said as he drove.

"I'm telling you the truth."

"But what kind of a game is that?" Arthur asked, keeping his eyes on the road, but also listening to Eames.

"It's a game I play while waiting on a bus," Eames said with a shrug. "It keeps my brain working."

It was now early afternoon. Arthur had tossed his jacket in the backseat and was set on driving them somewhere nice. Maybe the park? Finally, Arthur offered Eames some words, the names of the things on his most recent grocery list. If he wanted to play a game, why not?

" _Mouthwash, razor blades_ and _ice cream_."

Eames thought about it as Arthur passed through a green light then made a left turn. Not missing a beat, Eames said to Arthur, _"The mouse is a warm harbor, Dale Z. C."_

"What?" Arthur said, not able to hold back his laughter. _"That's_ what you're doing on the bus? You play with words and create nonsense sentences?"

Eames shrugged. "It keeps me sharp. It helps me create all sorts of nonsense as I write. You know, crazy things like PASIVs or totems..."

Arthur shook his head, willing to give it a go. "Don't expect me to be as fast as you. This isn't a skill expected out of most point men."

" _Cat, ticket,_ and _sponge_. I believe in you, darling."

* * *

"Tell me about the dream," Arthur asked as they hung out in the park, sitting beneath a tree in the shade.

"It was a dream," Eames said, not exactly making direct eye contact. He became very interested in peeling the wrapper off of the ice cream sandwich he'd purchased from a passing ice cream cart. It was Neapolitan, would be delicious, and Arthur was still staring at him, waiting for the real answer. "Want a bite?"

Arthur just waited.

Eames sighed dramatically, looking first at his ice cream sandwich, then at Arthur, who still sat beside him on the very same bench. "You're a hard man to argue against, you know that?"

The point man nodded.

"Fine. It was a awhile ago and I'm sure you know how strange dreams are. It was mostly over by the time I woke up- all the action, I would say, was over. I had this lasting impression of you. Capable, a little dangerous, and calculating." Eames was leaving out the word _sexy_.

Arthur made a hmmn noise. "Sounds a bit like me. Could sound like a lot of people."

"Yeah," Eames admitted. "But it inspired me to write about you. Arthur, the dream-thief."

Arthur leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, the white shirt in no danger from Eames's slightly melting ice cream. They were sitting close, not quite hip to hip; watching as families with kids, people with dogs, or people exercising, milled around them or walked down the beaten dirt path.

"We were stealing stuff," Eames added. "That's what I remember. A lot of running around with you at my side. Sometimes I'd lose you and I wouldn't have any idea what to do, but then you'd pop up again and clue me in. You'd say stuff like 'No, no. Not that way- it's too dangerous. Just follow me and we'll get out okay. Its my job.'"

"I was playing a point man in your dreams before you'd even decided what a point man was."

Eames didn't take a bite of his ice cream yet.

"Doesn't mean that this isn't one of the most fantastic coincidences known to man, though."

Arthur almost laughed. "A coincidence would be both of us choosing to wear green socks today or having first names that start with the same letter. Hearing you narrate my experiences in dreamshare is another thing entirely."

As a peace offering, Eames took his ice cream sandwich and carefully ripped it in half. He passed the half with the wrapper still mostly intact to Arthur, who accepted the offering with a slight shrug. The thing started to melt in the point man's hand, forcing him to lap at a line of strawberry ice cream that fell on the back of his hand. Eames made it a point not to stare.

"We don't, though," Eames said after clearing his throat. He remembered how he'd chosen Arthur's name. He'd liked how it sounded, even though this living and breathing Arthur didn't put him in mind of a bear, at all. He didn't put much stock in first names, anyway.

"I know," Arthur answered after he'd finished his first bite. "I looked you up."

"Please, don't say it."

"I'm not." Arthur gave him a curious look.

"But you know what it is. I go by my last name," Eames turned to look at Arthur, wanting to see if the man was lying or trying to make fun of him.

"I know," Arthur repeated, not appearing worried. "Mr. C. Eames, otherwise known as Mr. Eames. That's what I have in my notes for you."

Eames stared at Arthur, watching as the man took another bite of his half of the ice cream sandwich. When Arthur caught him looking, he rolled his eyes and said, "Eat your ice cream, Mr. Eames."

* * *

Eames and Arthur had a brief moment of silence standing before his door.

"Today was nice," Eames said, holding his keys in one hand. He was actually holding them a little tighter than he needed to, but he kind of wanted to know this was real. It had been a nice day. The keys biting into his hand were going to be as good as a totem for him at the moment.

Eames was already going over possible things he could say to Arthur.

 _Would you like to come in for coffee?_ That was popular. But he also didn't want to come off as too eager.

 _I had a wonderful time_ _, we may not have talked a lot about ourselves, but what we did talk about was revealing anyway?_

That was true- he already knew a bunch of facts about Arthur as he'd written him, but today, Arthur had proven himself to be honest, playful, and just as charming as Eames had thought. He- he was great! Definitely real. Definitely in need of an amazing ending. Eames was already thinking of several different things that could work...

"Really nice," Eames said, a little lamely. He did wonder if Arthur could see through all the little silences, fill in the blanks, and make educated guesses as to what Eames wasn't saying.

If that was the case, Arthur was being a perfect gentleman.

Neither had really treated today like a date. They both paid for themselves when they got the bill for breakfast, they'd not done anything remotely cutesy aside from sharing an ice cream, and Arthur's volunteering to drive Eames home to save the author a ride on the bus seemed like more of a polite thing to do, rather than a date-like thing.

"I had a good time, too," Arthur said, still looking nice. A little tired, hair mussed by the wind, but appearing to have genuinely had a nice time. His shirt was coming untucked; more bloused than tucked this late in the day, but that was fine.

And then Eames had this sense that something was going to happen. Music and movies and television and novels all screamed that something was about to happen and that Eames just had to wait, one more second, maybe two and half...

But then Eames opened his mouth and said the first silly thing on his mind.

"I just want you to know that if we were stuck on a deserted island, I _would_ share the dark chocolate with you."

This won Eames a smirk, a _dimpled_ smirk. "Nice to know, Mr. Eames." And there it was, the subtle shifting forwards, then the dry, chaste pressing of Arthur's lips against Eames's cheek. One second, two seconds...

Eames remained still, not closing his eyes as it happened or grabbing for the point man as he pulled away, ending the little kiss.

"Your PA will be back tomorrow," Arthur was saying. "You'll get back to writing."

Eames nodded, but not dumbly. He was just having trouble doing that thing where words would come out of his mouth coherently.

"I'll see you, but I refuse to get in the way of work. This," Arthur said, waving his hand at the space between them, "wasn't a one-shot."

Eames perked up. Not a one-shot. Not a one-shot! Before Eames could say anything damning or awkward, Arthur was already taking his first step away from Eames. Arthur stepped off of the author's front stoop and prepared to leave.

"To be continued," Arthur said with a smile; slipping away, hands in his pockets, walking back to his car without looking over his shoulder once.

Eames stood and waited, staring, making sure that Arthur wasn't going to rush back for something (not even a second goodnight kiss). When Eames was certain that the point man would neither come back or catch him being so foolish, Eames briefly danced happily in front of his door, chanting, "TBC, TBC, TBC! It's not a tragedy!"

It was his stoop and his door and he didn't care if anyone saw him!


	10. Chapter 10

A.N: Just typing away, tying off loose ends as we get closer to the end- I promise there's an ending. I'll get there even if I have to write during my semester, updating either on Fridays or weekends. I'll shoot for Fridays because I'm sure I'm killing you guys with all the short updates that pop up at anytime of the week!

Disclaimer: I don't own Inception or Stranger Than Fiction.

If I missed an error (and I usually miss a couple) I'll fix them later.

Once Arthur had gotten just far enough away from Eames's place; once he was on the street, he actually walked past where he'd parked his car. As he walked, he spotted an ugly little lawn ornament, a lawn gnome, belonging to Eames's neighbor. He scooped the thing up, enjoying the heft of it as he tossed it from hand to hand. He went further down the block, spotting what he wanted- it was another car, occupied by two _very_ familiar dreamsharers. Nondescript and plain, the car was blue and most likely a rental. It had been left running, perhaps for a quick getaway...

Before Yvette could slam her foot on the gas pedal and drive off, Arthur was standing at her side window, holding the blunt object in one hand. Her eyes widened and she immediately turned her face away, waiting for Arthur to break the window. Peter, in the front passenger seat, looked ready to bolt with one hand attempting to detach his seat belt and the other attempting to unlock his door. So far he could only slap at it uselessly, while he watched Arthur with wide, scared eyes.

But instead of smashing the window open, Arthur politely knocked on it.

Yvette flinched at the little _thunk-thunk_ noise as Arthur gently rapped his knuckles against the driver's side window. He did it twice, eyebrows raised. When she turned back, looking through her window furtively, Arthur made the hand sign for _roll down your goddamn window._ Yvette glanced over at Peter for a brief second before complying with Arthur's request.

She pressed the button, the window rolling down with a little whirring noise. Her eyes flicked to the lawn gnome Arthur still held in one hand, then to the point man's face.

"Hey, Arthur," she began, attempting to be cool and calm.

"It wasn't my idea," Peter babbled to Arthur, leaning in his seat, so that he could see past Yvette's body, so he'd get a better look at Arthur. "It wasn't!"

"I could care less if it was your idea, Peter," Arthur said, not really _angry_. If anything, Arthur was _disappointed_. He was annoyed. Arthur looked at Yvette. "Why were you tailing me?"

"We weren't tailing you! We were tailing _him!"_

Arthur refused to blink. He refused to show any hint of surprise, period. He'd not noticed _who_ was following him today, just that after leaving the restaurant, he'd noticed this car attempting to follow, usually several car lengths away, but persistently pursuing them. At least now he knew who they had been interested in. Now he had to persuade them to _lose_ that interest, fast.

"The job is over, Yvette. We were made, he knew he was dreaming," Arthur said, keeping to himself the fact that Eames truly didn't have an ending for the novel he was working on. Arthur made the man a promise, he was going to keep it. "He does have an ending- the fact that you failed to extract it is on _you_. I've informed the client and the job is finished."

Arthur wasn't being entirely truthful to Yvette. He was out and out lying. Because he hadn't learned anything about the ending, just that he was Eames's stubborn main character. It wasn't that Arthur wasn't used to the lack of ethics involved in dreamshare; that because he was paid to do a job, he'd do it well, and someone would get ruined was just a fact of life. It wasn't like Arthur was having a sudden change of heart just because he'd met Eames or had been hearing his voice for years. But it was true that it played a big part. Arthur believed that Eames deserved a chance to finish what he'd started, dreamshare interference or not. He didn't want to tell the client that he'd found no sign of an ending for Mr. Eames's latest story- so he'd lied when he made contact. As he was the one left holding the bag, he'd had to say _something_.

By doing it this way, he'd given the client the bare bones of what was requested. An ending had been confirmed, the author wasn't spinning his wheels or wasting the publishing company's time.

It didn't tell him why Yvette and Peter had returned. On the first try, they hadn't even managed to go down to the second level! It was shoddy work, an inelegant plan. And Arthur had warned Yvette.

Yvette's eyes narrowed. She wasn't even taking the bait, ignoring Arthur's blaming her for not finding what wasn't there. She may not be in the top five "best" extractors, she wasn't as talented (or as unhinged) as Cobb had been, but she was still good. Arthur had made sure of that before he agreed to work with her.

"Are you trying to tell me that you were able to extract the ending? You were able to figure it out?"

Arthur frowned at her. He could play this several ways, but there was something that was strange about her insistence on whether or not he'd extracted _anything_.

"How about you put your the cards on the table?" Arthur said, purposely excluding himself from the inquiry. "I think I can guess what's got you so eager to follow our mark around after the job was botched and you ran. I'm no stranger to having to run after someone screws up. But this was such an easy job! Whether we found evidence of the ending or not, we would have gotten paid! I'm thinking that you got another offer during the job. Something to sweeten the pot if you brought confirmation of the ending's existence? Two paychecks, one job." Arthur gave her a sharp look, a look that said he'd caught her in something a bit bigger than a lie. "Did someone else approach you for the ending? Did someone hire you to steal Mr. Eames's ending, his new book, before it made it to his publishers? Because that's the only thing I can think of, silly point man that I am, Yvette. That's how it adds up. You wanted to get your hands on the ending yourself."

Arthur was watching Yvette's face as she stared, impassive. She wasn't going to give the secret away, not easily, not willingly.

Arthur got an idea. He decided to try the weaker link.

"Oh, Peter?"

The architect flinched at the sound of Arthur's voice, but tried to make eye contact with the point man.

"Since you're here helping Yvette, I'm gonna think its safe to say you know what the fuck's going on. Spill it."

Yvette's nostrils flared and she shot Peter a dark, forbidding look. "Don't!"

Arthur smiled. He knew that at the moment, he looked like the least threatening person in the world- he was just a guy who had a nice date. Arthur's smile widened a little at that thought. _Why not call a spade a spade? He and Mr. Eames had a date._

But Peter flinched again as Arthur's smile widened.

"I-," Peter swallowed hard and tried again. "I've got nothing against you, Arthur. Honest!"

"Shut up," Yvette hissed at him. But Peter still had his eyes on Arthur.

"But another client really was offering us more money for that ending! Yvette left that part out!"

"Good god, Peter, if you don't shut your mouth I'll staple it shut!"

"Oh, god! It's true!" Peter said, either in fear of having his lips stapled together, or whatever he imagined Arthur would do instead. "We were promised more money for finding the ending! Lots more if we could get the entire book! This guy is worth _so, so much!_ We got the deal a little bit after you got on board- Yvette was hoping that we'd find the ending and that you'd never know about the extra cash. If you found out about the money, we thought you'd assume-"

Arthur glared at Peter. " _Point men don't assume."_

 _Woe to any who screwed with the perfection of a job._ These hush-hush, side-deals lead only to confusion, failed jobs, and uncomfortable situations. Like now. Arthur gave Yvette the final verdict.

"You're not getting extra money. You'd be lucky to get what was originally promised from the first client, considering you were going to sell the secret to someone else! _You_ made a different deal. But since you didn't stick around, you didn't learn what I did. You ran from the scene. So I've told the client exactly what I know. There is an ending. The job is over, no thanks to you. If I catch you tailing me again, I won't knock on your window, I'll smash it."

Arthur lifted the lawn gnome and said, "Like this."

Then Arthur smashed the left passenger side window, the tempered glass shattering and falling in uniform pieces, not jagged or sharp, scattering all over the backseat.

"Good luck getting your deposit back," Arthur said, not giving a damn as the car alarm went off. He could care less about civility or being polite now. If these idiots had really been trying to...

To do what, exactly?

Try to kidnap Eames for another extraction, all to get a bigger paycheck? They must have been surprised to see their point man, then! Very surprised, considering that they must have been watching some of what Arthur and Eames had been up to. Having breakfast and chatting in the park? Not usual _point man and mark_ behavior, to say the least.

"The author is off-limits," Arthur said to Yvette. "If you don't want to draw anymore attention to yourselves, you'd better leave." Arthur glared at the extractor and said, voice loud enough to be heard over the shrill car alarm.

"Stay away from Mr. Eames. He's on a deadline. He's not to be disturbed."

Arthur stepped well away from Yvette's car, but wouldn't turn his back until he was certain she wasn't going to run him over. She didn't.

Though Yvette said nothing, before leaving she'd shot a look at Arthur that spoke volumes. That look could have been a silent _You have no idea what you're getting into_ or _This isn't the last you'll hear from me_. The extractor revved the engine, pulled out of her parking spot, tires squealing, then speed away with her car alarm finally shutting off.

Arthur was alone, looking down the street where Yvette had gone. He sighed and thought of his options. Eames was now at risk for another extraction. Arthur frowned, thinking, I'm _probably going to get shot, maybe._ Yvette didn't look happy when he connected the dots. He should have asked how much Yvette thought she was going to get. He should have found out who the second client was. Then he could just nip this all in the bud, get it over with. Now it was going to get complicated...

Arthur shook his head and began to walk back towards Eames's place. He was nice and thought to put back the neighbor's garden gnome, giving it a thoughtful pat on the head, saying, "Good job, buddy" before moving on to check his car.

Though Arthur didn't think it was likely, he did a through check for GPS trackers. If Yvette and Peter had been so set on following them today, they could have taken the opportunity to quickly install one when they were distracted or far away from the car, like when they were sitting in the park. So Arthur took the time to use his cellphone as a flashlight and check the undercarriage, the front and rear bumper, and under the hood, all the places that someone could quickly place a tracker without gaining much notice. The park hadn't been very busy, the parking lot was mostly empty there, so Arthur looked carefully. It wouldn't do to lead Yvette and Peter to his home.

Once he was reasonably certain that it was fine, he went to Eames's house.

* * *

Eames stared.

"...what?"

Arthur, back again and sitting on Eames's comfortable, sagging couch, shrugged and repeated himself.

"We were followed by my team today- they were going to try and extract from you again."

"But, darling. You've just said that you've gotten my publishing company settled. You told them there was an ending!"

Arthur nodded. "My team was doing a two for one kind of deal," Arthur grimaced. "Without my knowledge, you understand?"

Eames sat down beside Arthur. He kept rubbing his hands against the material of his pants, a nervous gesture. "I'll be honest, that wasn't what I was expecting when you knocked on my door."

"I'm sorry, Eames. Your company only wanted to confirm you _had_ an ending, not steal it from you."

Eames was quiet for a moment, thinking. "Okay. What should we do? Technically, they've not committed a crime yet. Technically."

"The only thing I can think of, aside from stopping the threat at the source, is to help you finish your story as soon as possible. How long do you have?"

Eames leaned back, folded his arms across his chest and said, "Just under a week and half."

"Then lets get started." Arthur looked at Eames and said, "Don't take this the wrong way, but I'd like to take you back to my place."

"How could I take that the wrong way?" Eames said, a little surprised.

"It's just that I don't want to leave you here...Yvette and Peter might decide to pay you a late night visit."

Eames considered this, looking interested. "You won't mind?"

Arthur was a little distracted when he answered, still considering his options, wondering what Yvette and Peter's next moves would be.

"I'd feel better if I was in a place with more guns..." the point man said, honestly.

Eames grinned. "Ah, that's my darling! I'll pack a bag and grab my laptop."


	11. Chapter 11

A.N: Since I'm starting the semester tomorrow, I thought I'd give you guys another chapter. I'll update either Friday or the weekend, so enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own Inception, Stranger Than Fiction, various quotes by Nietzsche, and references to "Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm" by the Crash Test Dummies.

If I missed any errors (and since I'm rushing, I'm sure I did) I will fix them later.

He was in Arthur's home. Eames looked around, curiously noticing little details that coincided with what Eames had already written, noticing others that didn't, and couldn't help wondering why. Maybe he'd have a chance to ask.

"I'd give you a tour," Arthur said, "but I get the feeling you already know where I keep the linens."

"And firearms," Eames said, still standing in the middle of Arthur's living room, looking at the neat flat-screen TV, the chic leather couch and matching chair, the accent rug that had a playful pattern. This was Arthur's small apartment, just as he'd imagined it. This was what he'd pictured as he'd begun to write outside of an outline, to take Arthur on an adventure.

And it seemed that it was going to be a shared adventure...

Arthur laughed, but it wasn't with much humor. "Right. Good to know for an emergency, but I'd prefer it if you didn't try to arm yourself."

Eames was looking through Arthur's bookshelves, noticing the classic and modern novels, the books about architecture. He smirked at the point man.

"I _did_ make sure to go to a gun range and get familiar with the guns you prefer, darling. I didn't want your use of weapons to appear unrealistic." Eames hummed, unnecessarily adding, " _In the story,_ I mean. I studied for it and interviewed credible sources."

Before Arthur could roll his eyes, Eames was setting his bag and laptop case on the couch and moving closer, hands politely clasped before him. He stopped just in front of Arthur.

"This isn't the story," Eames explained, frowning. "I didn't write this."

"I would have heard you narrating it as I spoke with Yvette and Peter," Arthur agreed.

Eames unclasped his hands, opening them in a helpless gesture, like he was setting what worried him free, sharing it with Arthur. "Its very strange. I didn't write our meeting, either. Your efforts to avoid taking an adventure must have literally _created one_. One where you meet your author and apparently have to help finish his story before it's stolen." He shrugged. "I'm not saying it isn't a _good_ plot or an engaging adventure. It's just not my usual."

"I've looked into some of your stories and can agree to that much. Your characters don't meet you- they fall in love, get promoted, meet long lost family members, or achieve a goal..."

It was true. The four books he'd written all followed the idea that the world the characters lived in was the only world; that there wasn't an author narrating their lives. There was no chance to meet the author. Eames hadn't written Arthur's story with that in mind, except maybe in the most silly way- thinking to himself that if Arthur were real, he would have wanted to meet the man. And now he had.

It was still hard to explain, mostly because he'd tried so hard to not view Arthur as an extension of himself- his hopes, dreams, or wishes, all in the grasp of a fictional character. But Arthur was real and Eames still didn't know how to end his story, didn't know what would make him happy. Well, spending time together seemed to make the man happy, but Eames wasn't sure what to do with that information just yet. He only barely managed to hold back his smile as he thought, _Damn right,_ to be continued!

Arthur was real. He had a real life and a fantastic job straight out of science fiction. He deserved an ending that would do him justice, complete this segment of his life.

Not allowing the nervousness to get to him, the threat of ruining Arthur's ending with one wrong twist in the plot humming along in the back of Eames's mind, the author took a deep breath, turned away from the point man to remove his stuff from the couch and gesture Arthur over.

"Okay, we need to have a chat, an honest talk about your feelings and needs and wishes for the future."

Arthur stared, remaining where he was in the middle of the living room, watching as Eames dragged the matching chair closer to the couch, snatching an unused legal pad off of Arthur's coffee table and plucking a pen out of his shirt pocket.

When Arthur didn't move, Eames shot him a look, eyebrows raised. He patted the couch and said, "Time to plumb the depths of your psyche, darling. I need to know what you want, so come over and lay on the couch, bare your soul and we'll have a starting point."

When Eames continued to look expectantly at Arthur, not giving in, Arthur finally sighed and kicked off his shoes so he could flop onto his couch and stare at the ceiling.

"If you ask me about my relationship with my mother, I'm getting off this couch and letting Yvette and Peter steal an ending that doesn't exist."

Eames flipped a page of the legal pad and began to scribble, not looking up as he continued to write. "It's not that the ending doesn't exist, Arthur. Everyone's got an ending, a destination they're heading towards. You've been heading towards yours, even if you don't follow my plot or try to avoid adventure like the plague. Whether we like it or not, we're on an adventure now, together. It's just unwritten."

He looked away from the legal pad and smiled for Arthur, who watched the author carefully instead of pretending to contemplate the shade of white his ceiling had been painted. Arthur refused to look away as Eames said, "If hanging out with me today made you happy, you'll probably get sick of me before this is over."

Arthur chuckled and returned his attention to the ceiling, folding his hands against his stomach, getting comfortable. "We'll see, Mr. Eames."

* * *

"If you had the chance to do anything- money was no object, you had plenty of time- what would you do?"

Arthur thought about it carefully. "Being in dreamshare has made me experience just about everything. I've traveled to foreign countries, tried all sorts of different foods, met and interacted with people I'd have never met if my job weren't involved."

Eames snorted and continued to make notes. "Yes, that's probably true. You'd never have met me if I wasn't someone you had to extract from."

Arthur turned on his side a little so he could look at Eames without hurting his neck. "Are you kidding? I could have run into during the trips I've made for work- we both travel a lot."

Eames considered this, but shook his head. "Even if we did meet while traveling, I wouldn't think you'd be interested in me. I don't think I would have wowed you all that much, even if we add what I do for a living to the equation. I'm not sure you'd be a big fan of my work..."

Arthur rolled his eyes and began to recite, _"Celebrated for his honest, heartwarming depictions of characters struggling to find a their way through life, Mr. Eames has carved himself a niche in high demand. '_ I think that its hard enough to write a tragedy, _' Mr. Eames is quoted as saying_ , 'Why make your main characters suffer for what they want, when smoothing the path and helping them achieve their goals is much more satisfying? I'm not the sort to kick a man when he's down, writing happy endings doesn't hurt anyone.' _The stories of Mr. Eames prove to be as rewarding to his characters as they are to his devoted readers."_

Arthur raised an eyebrow and said, "Not owning your books doesn't mean I dislike you. I've never read your books...to be honest, over the last few years I haven't had time for reading books." He shrugged and went back to staring at the ceiling. "But Cobb is safe now. He's back with his kids and I can do whatever I want. Maybe if I have time after the adventure I'll read your books."

"I can't believe you memorized that review..." Eames was saying to himself, adding another another note to the legal pad.

"I can't believe you think that you're boring. That _I'd_ think you're boring!"

"Not all of us can be amazing dream thieves. You're criminal, love."

Arthur laughed, looking over at Eames briefly. "I'm not bad. I'm just _written_ that way."

* * *

"I'm titling this 'Things That Make Arthur Happy'," Eames announced as he began writing on a fresh page. "So, go ahead. Tell me the first things that come to mind, whatever they are."

"Suits, dreamshare, architecture, paradoxical architecture."

"You've been thinking about it, haven't you?"

Arthur had. It had been harder than he thought. Nailing down the details of what made him happy, picking and choosing between interests, hobbies, and things related to his work. Arthur feared that his likes, his wants, didn't make him three-dimensional. That despite these quirks or interests or flaws, he'd still come off as a flat-character, a stock-character of _Thirty something year old workaholic._ Work wasn't the only thing he cared about. But the things that he used to really like before he'd taken up dreamshare had become foggy. Arthur had to ask himself if he remembered the person he used to be before he started working as a point man, before the technology swallowed up his life.

Eames waited through Arthur's pensive silence, sure that the man was going to offer something else.

Rather than continue to lounge on the couch, Arthur forced himself to get into a seated position. It had come to him as he thought of the time, wondering what they'd do for dinner.

"I like to cook," Arthur said. "I'm not the best, but it does make me happy to do that sort of stuff."

Arthur looked at Eames, wondering if there was a word for the feeling he was having. The sort of bashful feeling that Arthur hadn't had when they'd gone to breakfast together was flaring up at just the hint that Arthur would cook for Eames. That before, when preparing a meal, carefully adding each ingredient, mixing, dicing, or searing, he could be doing the equivalent of telling a story. That the difference now was that he'd be telling it to Eames.

That maybe it would be nice to be in charge of the story for once.

In the face of the uncertain variables of Yvette and Peter, the thought of the author in his home; under his roof, sharing his table, most likely camping out on his couch, put Arthur at ease. For as long as Eames was here, Arthur would make sure he was safe from greedy extraction teams- he'd make sure that Eames got to finish the story.

Arthur stood and rolled up his sleeves, walking past a bemused Eames and entering his kitchen. He called over his shoulder, "You don't mind pasta, do you? It's just that after the last few days I've had, I hadn't had the opportunity to get to the market..."

Eames let his legal pad rest on the couch and stood so he could follow Arthur into the kitchen.

"Sounds great," the author said, curious to see what his point man looked like as he cooked. He'd not written many scenes where Arthur showed a culinary talent. "I can help!"

* * *

It turned out that Arthur could boil water for pasta and make a quick sauce without anything drastic happening to dinner, himself, or Eames. Eames helped chop onion and garlic as Arthur searched the cabinets for a can of crushed tomatoes he'd gotten last week.

"Why not use fresh?" Eames asked as he first chopped then minced the onion Arthur had placed in the freezer for ten minutes before handing it over- Eames didn't have to blink away tears as he worked, grateful to not have stinging, streaming eyes as he worked alongside the point man.

Arthur shrugged as he finished opening the can and setting it aside. "I forget about them and they rot. The canned stuff will be fine."

Served with a half a bottle of Pinot Noir, they had a pleasant dinner; Arthur felt accomplished and Eames spent most of the meal making sure that Arthur knew that he not only appreciated his cooking, but liked it, too.

Arthur snorted, twirling more pasta onto his fork, giving Eames a sloe eyed glance over his bowl. "If you keep that up you'll sound like the chorus line to that Crash Test Dummies song."

Finished chewing, Eames smirked at Arthur. "But you weren't in a car accident, Arthur. You just found out that I was writing about you. That I _have_ been writing about you and dreamshare."

Arthur said, "Mmm."

* * *

Passing Eames some spare blankets and a pillow, Arthur made a suggestion for what they could do tomorrow.

"I like exercising."

"Like at a gym," Eames asked as he set the blankets down on the couch, experimentally squeezing the pillow to test it's softness. Even though he was sure that Arthur had stripped the pillowcase and replaced it with something new, the author could swear that he could smell hints of Arthur's cologne from the pillow. It made Eames think that the pillow was a spare from Arthur's bed.

Eames was in Arthur's home. He was going to sleep on Arthur's couch, resting his head on a pillow that Arthur kept on his own bed. How was this even his life?

The point man, unaware of Eames's thoughts, shook his head and continued to speak. "No. I like to go jogging- the area is perfect for it- we're so close to the coast here, that I thought you'd like to get some fresh air in the morning."

Eames wasn't unfit. He wasn't overweight or weak or anything like that. He just didn't get as much exercise as he should. But the idea of jogging with sleek and perfect Arthur at his side, then lagging behind the point man as he couldn't catch his breath, was the least appealing thought in his mind.

But Eames wanted to impress Arthur.

The author forced a smile on his face. "That's an excellent idea. We could work on the plot as we exercise. Like Nietzsche said 'All truly great thoughts are conceived while walking'!"

"But you have a deadline looming closer and closer," Arthur said seriously. "I'm sure Nietzsche would understand the need to speed walk, at least. It's not going to kill you, I promise."

Eames sighed. "Yes, he's got a line about that, too, but I doubt I'll feel much stronger."


	12. Chapter 12

A.N: I have never been so glad that it's Friday. The first week has been tough and the thought of Ariadne putting Arthur in a headlock was one of the things that kept me going.

Disclaimer: I don't own Inception, Stranger Than Fiction, or 'Taken'.

I've reread it a couple of times, but if I missed an error or two, I'll fix it later.

Their jog had been uneventful. Well, to be specific, Arthur's jog and Eames's fast-paced walk had been uneventful. They'd made decent headway on the plot, Eames filling Arthur in on ideas while waiting for the point man to finish sprinting up and down the Santa Monica Stairs four times. When he was finished, he'd leaned against the railing near the entrance, breathing still a little heavy, but his color was good and he didn't look as worn out as Eames felt after doing just one 'oh, it can't be that hard' set that he could still feel in his thighs and back.

Arthur promised that they could slowly walk homewards, where they could flip a coin to see who got the first shower, and then decide what to have for lunch later.

Weary, Eames had waved Arthur on, assuring the man that he could make it out of the elevator by himself, he was just going to do it slowly. As he was just forcing himself out of the elevator, Eames only caught the aftermath of what was supposed to be Arthur opening his door. He didn't even get a chance to slip his key into the lock.

This was eventful. _This_ should be further described as a woman, short and dark haired, doing her best to keep Arthur in a headlock while harshly demanding: "You'll tell me what you've done to him! You'll tell me right now!" First, Eames didn't recognize her- though she'd long since abandoned her business attire while working with him on the novel, she'd just come back from a baby shower and was wearing what she must wear during her off-time. This was his Ariadne, wearing jeans, sneakers, a hoodie, and a scarf.

Eames, floored by the sight of his PA having come to rescue him (apparently), weakly leaned against the the wall, staring in shock at the sight she, no _they_ made.

"I'm right here!"

Arthur, breathing a little heavily, looked at Eames, not so much surprised as he was annoyed about the position he was in.

"I want you to know that I could snap her in half if I wanted to. I _could_. You'd know th-," Arthur stopped mid-word as Ariadne decided to first _pull_ then _twist_ Arthur's right ear. Unable to help himself, Arthur had to lean into Ariadne's pull and swear his way through the twist. _"Damn it, ouch!"_ The point man said, cheeks pinking in honest humiliation before he glared at Eames. "I was about to say that I was only letting her manhandle me because I don't hit women, but I'm reconsidering it, Mr. Eames!"

Eames made gentling hand gestures at Arthur, who despite his comment, had yet to get away from the petite woman threatening to rip his ear off. Eames tried to work on Ariadne.

"Look, it's very complicated, but I'll need you to understand that Arthur means no harm. Just let him go!"

"I don't care what weird Stockholm syndrome thing you two have going on, Eames. I've just come back from my trip to find that your house has been ransacked and that you were missing!"

"And," Arthur said, "You've decided to pull a _Taken_ to get Eames back- you're not as scary as Liam Neeson, sorry so- _ouch, stop twisting, you maniac!"_

"I don't know who you are," Ariadne said, "I don't know what you want. But if you don't let the author go, I will kill you."

Arthur blinked, frowning. "That...that was sort of from _Taken_. And I didn't kidnap him!"

Eames was nodding, agreeing with him, hoping that Ariadne would see reason rather than thinking that he was experiencing Stockholm syndrome.

"That's true! We had a date!"

Eames cleared his throat when he looked at Arthur, not noticing any new signs of discomfort from the point man. If anything, Arthur attempted a very shallow, very brief, nod of agreement.

"Yes," the point man said. "And he spent the night here." Arthur paused, adding, "He slept on my couch." As if that would help clear any implication of them having come back here to have post-date sex. Now he _did_ blush, just a bit. Just a tiny bit.

Ariadne was looking from the man she still had in a headlock, ready to twist his ear if he said or did anything threatening and Eames, who looked embarrassed.

"When I texted you this address, it was just so you'd know where I was- not attempt to kick the ass of the man I'm dating. Since we've only just gotten back from a morning jog, could you let the man go so he could open the door?"

Ariadne finally relented, letting Arthur go. The point man glared at her, appearing to be weighing the pros and cons of exacting a little vengeance on her for all the ear twisting and Liam Neeson movie themed threats. But before he could do anything as mild as an Indian burn, Eames caught his eye and quickly shook his head.

Arthur did nothing but open the door, waving Ariadne in, but looking after her suspiciously.

When Eames ventured closer, eager to get back into the apartment, Arthur caught him by the arm and hissed, "You could have said something about texting your location to your PA. I could have hurt her, Eames."

"But you didn't."

Arthur didn't say anything for a minute. "I didn't see her. She was waiting further down the hall, keeping watch over my door. When she spotted me, she ran towards me to build up her momentum and tried to take me to the ground. It may not have worked the way she wanted it to, but she'd still gotten the jump on me and tried to restrain me. I could have hurt her. But then I saw her face, Eames." Arthur's expression was a little lost. "For your extraction I looked up your PA. I'd noticed the striking resemblance between them. She looks like my Ariadne."

Eames reached for Arthur's hand and tried to be reassuring. "Arthur, when I wrote your Ariadne, she didn't have a name yet. I _gave_ her that name when I met my new PA."

He didn't want to launch into another talk about the existence of other secondary characters. Arthur didn't seem to question Cobb's existence as much as it appeared he was questioning the architect's or his own.

"It was a coincidence, darling." He squeezed Arthur's hand, in part to be reassuring and supportive, but also to give Arthur that subtle reminder that the point man was also real. He had to be. "What _wasn't_ a coincidence was my house getting broken into after a few criminals followed me and my date around."

This got Arthur to smile. "You really like calling me that, don't you?"

Eames refused to lie. "Yes."

"For people who are dating, we've not engaged in any funny business."

"It wouldn't be polite to start in front of Ariadne. That and I assume that there's a three date rule for anything that sort of exceeds funny business."

"Agreed."

"But I would assume that means you're open to the idea for later?"

"We could arrange for two more dates and fit some necking and heavy petting in between finishing your novel and figuring out who broke into your house."

Eames agreed. "Yes, the fact that my house was broken into takes priority." But he was going to remember everything Arthur said that didn't concern the story. He was going to think about a total of three dates and anything that sounded like necking. He'd have to look it up to be certain what it entailed.

Arthur, who had been watching Eames's face as he was thinking, probably knew what the author was thinking of. It only made his smile widen. "It does. But once this stuff is taken care of, we can consider a second or third date. I'd like to take things slowly. I'm not used to this sort of thing."

"Being in a story?" Eames asked, even though he had a pretty good idea what Arthur meant. He wanted Arthur to correct him and prove him right. He wanted them to be on the same page but couldn't bring himself to ask the question. It sounded so juvenile!

"Being in a relationship," Arthur replied, giving Eames a nudge and letting him go through the front door. "Now, because I was the one to get put in a headlock, I get the first shower."

* * *

While Arthur was in the shower, Eames sat on the couch with Ariadne, doing everything but explaining the situation.

"So how was your sister?"

"You're really going to pretend that this is normal?"

Leaning back, his blanket neatly folded on his left side, Eames was willing to accept this as the new normal. For him, this could be nice. It could be lovely. Especially if the people after him could be neutralized. Especially if he could finish the story.

"How so?"

"So, you meet this guy while I'm away. You go on a date and then decide to spend the night. Someone breaks into your house while you're gone. And you've failed to even mention that this man looks like your main character."

He could take this several ways. Some of those ways would lead to Ariadne believing he'd gone off the deep end. That he'd gone crazy from the stress. He considered what would be least damaging.

"Does he?" Eames said, smiling, wishing that playing dumb would be the least bit believable. The only other choice he'd have would be to exclaim over coincidences. "He's certainly as handsome as I imagined."

Ariadne's eyes narrowed. "His name is Arthur, Eames. He looks _exactly_ like that sketch you showed me. Have you even done a little bit of writing since I've been gone? We don't have time for whirlwind romances with guys that look like the guy you're supposed to be writing an ending for!"

Eames considered this, finally nodding and agreeing with her. "Yes, I can see that. We're on a deadline. But _we're_ not dating Arthur. I'm dating him. I don't think he'd enjoy being one third of a poly-amorous relationship. But I could ask!"

"Don't make fun of me, Eames," the PA said. "You know what I meant. You don't have time for this!"

Eames sighed and looked at Ariadne. "I brought my laptop with me. I took my flash drive that has the entire draft on it. If someone broke into my house, all they got was electronics I can easily replace and maybe a few personal possessions."

 _Because if it was Yvette and Peter, they'd probably turned the house upside down trying to find anything that looked like the missing ending, the unfinished story they'd failed to extract from me. They'd probably thought it would be easier than facing Arthur again._

Ariadne relaxed slightly. "When I got to your place this morning, I noticed that your door had been left unlocked. At first I thought that you'd just gotten busy. But when I looked inside," Ariadne looked at Eames and shook her head. "You're going to have to hire someone to clean that place. After I explored the ruin of your house, I'd gotten your little text telling me where you were."

"I'll clean the house myself if I have to, Ariadne. And I sent you that text when Arthur and I were heading out for some exercise."

"I notice that you still haven't explained Arthur."

"He's my muse?"

"Not likely. You haven't done any more writing, have you?"

"Not yet. We've only just got back from a jog to get attacked by an angry PA. You could understand that I haven't had much time to get any writing done this morning."

Ariadne's eyes narrowed. "I was worried about you, Eames. I want to know what's wrong."

From his spot on the couch Eames could hear the sounds of Arthur switching off the shower, stopping the flow of water from the showerhead. He'd probably be out soon. There was very little time left for this conversation and they'd barely gotten to the tip of the iceberg.

"Have you ever wondered if what you'd written was real? Have you ever sat down and wondered about how a character's life went after you'd finished the story, how things had gone for them, if they'd really been happy?"

Ariadne frowned at him, not understanding his question. "But you write fiction. The people you write about aren't real. Eames, _Arthur_ isn't real. The Arthur in your story isn't real. You can't let questions about their happiness stop you from finishing a story. You've got to get this done- break in or not, boyfriend or not."

"Something strange is happening, Ariadne."

"Like what?"

How could he tell her that something was getting in the way of his finishing the story. That despite Ariadne's help, despite Arthur's insights and explanations, that there was something that was getting in the way of Arthur's happiness. That there was now something getting in the way of Eames's completing the ending, period.

"I'll tell you once I figure it out."


	13. Chapter 13

A.N: I meant to get this done on Friday, but that didn't happen. So here it is now; short with spelling errors (because I usually miss at least one or two).

Disclaimer: I don't own Inception or Stranger Than Fiction.

"You look exactly like him."

"I am him."

"It's not possible!"

Arthur sighed. "Saying that my very existence isn't possible makes me feel a little insulted. You're not even allowing for the faintest likelihood of it being true. That I'm really Arthur, excellent dream criminal and point man. At this point I'd settle for your saying that I'm not probable because it would at least allow for my existence to be upgraded to not likely rather than not able to occur, period. Could I offer you something to drink or will you start challenging the existence of any beverage I offer you?"

Ariadne, still seated on Arthur's couch, stared. She was far too skeptical to be amazed, narrowing her eyes and saying, "Maybe you're just playing at being him. Pretending that you're _Arthur, dream criminal and point man."_

"I could brew coffee or tea," Arthur continued, listing what he had on hand in his fridge. "I don't have any soda, but I could pour you some orange juice." The point man shrugged. "And there's tap water."

"You're not playing around, are you? You actually believe this!"

Arthur wasn't even thinking about his own worries about his existence, about his reality, or the threat of Limbo. He needed to be focused and sure and ready to be his own deadly and efficient self if things went badly. No more questions about whether he was real or if he was a fiction brought to life. He had more important things to do- for now, he was seated at his proverbial table and his plate was full, so he'd have to let those thoughts sit on the sideboard (dishes covered to stay warm) until he was ready for seconds.

"I'm the best, Ariadne. I've walked in dreams, I've died there. I've fought and killed and survived through everything life has thrown at me, only to find out about _this._ There isn't a choice to not believe it, there isn't a box to check that will get me out of my own life." He made direct, unflinching eye contact with the PA. "I'm on an adventure. I'm going towards the end, as blind as any character in a story would be. I've met the man who has been pulling my strings, and now, I've got a say in what happens. Its more than I could ask for. So before you try and tell me that I'm a doppelganger or an actor who bears a striking resemblance to Eames's main character, I need you to remember what your job is."

The PA frowned. "I'm helping Eames finish the story. If you are who you say you are and not just _crazy,_ you have a vested interest in seeing this finished."

Arthur nodded and then dropped into the nearby chair. "If his home was broken into, I don't think its safe for him to go back. I need to help make sure that he isn't extracted from again."

From the way Ariadne's eyes widened and then narrowed, it was clear that she recognized the term. "Eames didn't mention that," Ariadne said, her voice deceptively light with an undercurrent of _someone's going to get it_.

Arthur refused to flinch at her tone. "I was on the original team that tried to extract the ending and found out about Eames's existence the same time he figured out that I was real too. Right in the middle of the job. I walked right into a meet-cute; I'm trying to protect him from my extractor and I'm currently working without a plot."

Ariadne was glaring and leaning forwards from her seat on the couch, looking conflicted as to whether or not she wanted to hit him for trying to steal an ending from Eames. But she leaned back, arms folded against her chest, appearing puzzled. She was thoughtfully pressing her thumb against the corner of her mouth, creating a dimple.

"For a supposed big, scary dream criminal, it was awfully easy for me to get you in a headlock."

"You caught me off guard and you reminded me of the other Ariadne."

"And you don't hit women."

"I don't usually hit women, but that's subject to change if the person attempting to hurt me happens to be female."

Ariadne nodded, accepting this. "So, you're a dream-thief."

Arthur nodded.

"And you tried to find out what the ending to Eames's story was, not knowing that you were a character in his story."

Arthur nodded again. "I could go into a lengthy explanation about how I've been hearing him narrate my actions for a few years, that I fought against the plot when he decided I needed to go on an adventure, but I doubt you'll believe me." He shrugged and leaned back in his chair, listening to the sound of his shower running. "I'm real. I'm human. My heart beats and I bleed and I'm still the main character of Eames's story."

Ariadne stared. "I'm not leaving."

"I wouldn't expect you to."

"I'm serious- I'll sleep here if I have to. I'll sleep on the floor!"

Arthur smirked and nodded. "I can tell. You're going to crack the whip and get him to work on the story, whether I'm real or not. Meet-cute be damned. This story has taken on a life of its own- whether I follow it or not, we're progressing. Because its not just about me now. Its about us, I think. From what you've told me about Eames's house being broken into, its escalating. Even you coming here is proof that something bigger is coming down the pike. Maybe we're headed for the denouement "

Ariadne didn't reply. She just watched the point man.

"Since you're staying, I'll have to go shopping for more food and get more blankets and sheets out of the closet so you'll be comfortable sleeping here."

Ariadne nodded, appearing satisfied for the moment. "That's fine. I'll have to lay down some ground rules for you. First, no distracting Eames when he should be writing. Second, no distracting Eames when he should be writing. Third, no distracting Eames when he should be writing."

"I bet I could guess what the fourth rule is," Arthur muttered.

"Fourth," Ariadne continued as if Arthur hadn't said anything. "No getting into my author's pants."

This command made Arthur raise his eyebrows. "Seriously?"

Ariadne nodded, short and decisive. "Dead serious. I had two authors nearly miss their deadlines when they started screwing a new boyfriend or girlfriend- the relationships went bad, the author's got depressed, and I spent far too much time mending broken hearts and reading crummy drafts."

There was a pointed throat clearing from somewhere behind Arthur's chair. Arthur had heard the shower shut off, but hadn't thought that Eames would be out so soon.

Ariadne had the better view, so she got to see the picture Eames made leaning against the door frame of Arthur's hall; the author dressed neatly, his hair toweled dry. He was amused.

"I believe that I have a say about who gets into my pants, Ariadne."

Then to Arthur, Eames said, "Now might not be the best time, but when we get there, I'd like you to know that you're welcome. I'd even make you a pass of some sort."

Arthur looked over his shoulder at Eames. "I agree with your PA. Continue writing, finish the story, and we'll talk about this pass. In the meantime, I have to go shopping."

Eames brightened up. "Can I come?"

"What did I just say?" Ariadne called from her spot on the couch.

"I can write anywhere, Ariadne. I can write anywhere and on anything."

The PA slowly stood and stalked over to the pair, stopping in front of Eames to poke him in the chest with one finger, timing the pokes with her words.

"You will write," she hissed, poke-poke-poking. "I don't care if you've started something. I just want you to finish this story!"

Arthur waved from his spot on his chair. "Preaching to the choir."

The PA snapped at Arthur, who couldn't hide his small smile, "Oh, be quiet and get your keys! We'll all go together."


	14. Chapter 14

A.N- I had a bigger and better note up here but I accidentally deleted it. So I said stuff about stuff and reminded everyone about the things I don't own like Inception or Stranger Than Fiction or even Beetlejuice references! I also reminded you of my poor editing skills and promised to fix them when I have time.

There was something pleasantly normal about walking through the aisles of a grocery store with Arthur at his side and Ariadne following in their wake, glaring daggers into Eames's back.

Arthur piloted the cart, Eames fetched items off the shelves, and Ariadne reminded them of what they should be doing.

"We need that ending."

"We need spinach," Arthur answered, looking at the short list he'd written before leaving his apartment, guiding the shiny wire cart down the narrowing aisles. "Leeks, onions, bell peppers..."

"Produce should be a couple of aisles away," Eames observed, holding up two different brands of pasta, waiting for Arthur's approval before dropping one or the other into the cart.

"The whole wheat pasta's fine," Arthur said, nodding and checking it off of his list with the pen he'd borrowed from Eames. "And you're right. Produce section is next to the floral department."

"He could be using that pen to write the ending," Ariadne piped up again, watching as the two men worked as a team to get the shopping done quickly and efficiently. If she had a positive comment about that, she wasn't saying anything. "Considering he brought that pen to write 'anywhere and on anything', to work on actually finishing his story and not being all _cute_ with you."

Arthur briefly looked over his shoulder to say, "You know Eames could take that as a compliment. Hear that, Mr. Eames? She thinks you're cute with me."

Eames laughed and nudged Arthur; stealing the pen back from him and beginning to write on the notepad he'd brought with him. As he wrote, he spoke aloud.

"Eames followed Arthur, taking his lead as they explored the grocery store- the irritating PA following at their heels continued to remind Eames that there was work to be done and that there was no time for fun. That he shouldn't be cute with Arthur, for fear that the point man's dimples would be distracting, not just for Eames but for the entire store!"

Eames wrote feverishly and kept up with Arthur, who continued to push the cart while he didn't bother to pretend that he wasn't listening.

"And there they were, charming little divots at the corners of Arthur's mouth! How many would stop and stare as the regular stone-face cracked a smile wide enough to make them appear!"

Eames was so distracted by his writing and narration that he accidentally walked into a display of canned goods at the end of the aisle, hitting the obstacle and knocking a few of the cans to the ground.

"Why even Eames, that poor fool, has fallen prey to their charm and just crashed into an end cap display!" Eames announced, moving to crouch and pick up the items dropped and put them back on the display, before moving to Arthur's side. "But even though he took care of the spill, canned corn couldn't keep him away from the point man for long. Eames was drawn to Arthur; it was black magic, it was strong, but Eames didn't even think of fighting the other man's call."

"Damn straight," Arthur said, smiling wide enough that he was flashing dimples.

The PA narrowed her eyes and said, "I think that _Cadby_ ought to remember how serious this is!" She followed them as they took the next turn and moved on towards the produce section.

Arthur wasn't phased, he didn't even stop walking. "He's not a child. You can't bring him to heel by using his first name even though he really doesn't like it."

"My family had plenty of people named _Charles_ for my great-great grandfather," Eames explained, Arthur nodding in response as he continued to push his cart along floors in need of an early afternoon mopping before they transitioned the produce section where the floors were in need of an early afternoon sweeping, if the amount of onion skins and crushed strawberries were anything to go by. Ariadne still followed after them, frowning at her failed attempt to chasten Eames.

"My mother wanted to name me something different- an Old English name, but not a popular one, that still started with the letter C. She chose Cadby because it meant 'from the warrior's settlement'. She told _me_ that she hadn't thought that people, particularly classmates from primary school on to college would make my nickname _Cad the Lad."_ Eames groused to himself, looking embarrassed even talking about it. "It gave me a reputation I didn't earn- sure, I was smart and sometimes could be witty, but I was so _awkward._ There were so many negative connotations attached to the word that I stopped responding to my first name. I wasn't a cad; I wasn't rude or mean or hurtful to women. I wasn't hurtful to anyone! I used to dream of changing my name."

This caught Arthur's interest as he selected and bagged the produce he wanted. "Really? Like what?"

"I didn't want my name to start with a C," the author said, smiling at the memory. "I'd write the names in a journal and rated them on a scale of 1 to 10; 1 being my least favorite and 10 being the one I'd grow up with and write on every form and have my loved one's call me and finally have it inscribed on my headstone when I die."

"Did you ever settle on one?"

Eames shook his head. "No. They didn't fit. They didn't sound right. And my mother told me she'd cry if I changed it. I decided to not bother changing it and just stopped referring to it as anything but my first initial. I'm Mr. C. Eames. Or just Eames. People who don't know my first name can assume the initial stands for any name that starts with the letter C."

Ariadne, who had been silent through the conversation, finally huffed out a sigh. "Okay, I'm sorry. It wasn't very nice of me to use your name when you obviously don't like it. I learned it through the publishing company and was advised not to use it."

"Say it three time in a row and I'll move to Canada." And then Eames walked off to examine a display of apples, leaving Arthur at the cart and Ariadne staring after him.

"I can't believe he just threatened to move to Canada _and_ made a _Beetlejuice_ reference at the same time."

"I doubt that he'll move to Canada," Arthur said to Ariadne before gesturing to his cart and asking, "Since we're shopping for all of us, is there anything you'd like in particular? Is there anything you can't have? I don't want to accidentally make you sick..."

Ariadne looked at Eames, who was already coming back with a small selection of apples to break up the large amount of vegetables in the cart.

"I'm allergic to bananas and walnuts."

Arthur nodded, memorizing it. "So I won't make you muffins or bread containing either of those things."

"You bake?"

"Not yet," Arthur said with a shrug, suddenly thoughtful, "but I could learn if I wanted to. If you haven't noticed, I've got loads of time now."

* * *

Dinner had been hours ago. The trio had entertained themselves with television, conversation, and of course, _the story_. After a long talk, Ariadne was now sort of reassured that this was going somewhere. That Eames really was working and not just finding a strange, otherworldly excuse to spend time with Arthur, his boyfriend.

Even Arthur was starting to warm to that title. He was the point man, he was the dream criminal, and he was the boyfriend. There was a strange fondness that blossomed every time he thought of it. This was going somewhere. _This was actually going somewhere!_

Eames had shown Arthur (and Ariadne) everything he'd worked on. The draft on the flash drive. Eames had allowed Arthur to sit before his old and beaten up laptop, insert the flash drive, and read words he'd only heard spoken by his then mysterious, accented narrator. It sent a shiver down Arthur's spine to read snippets of words he'd sworn were an auditory hallucination, a sign of his madness.

Then there were things that he didn't hear narrated to him, but simply experienced himself. Things like Mal's death, which happened near the beginning of his story. Arthur started to read:

 _She'd died and left him a mess. He'd wanted to deal the blame; shuffle the cards (nothing but spades for responsibility, violence, and suffering) and pass them around to gamblers at some felt-lined table, lightening the weight of the deck in his hand, sparing himself the burden so he could move on. But there wasn't anyone else. Arthur was left holding all the cards, heavy as bricks, heavy as stones he'd have to carry in his pockets for Cobb- how could the man bear the weight of any of it without Arthur's help? Cobb would have to run now, his path uncertain, his future unclear. And Arthur would follow. He knew that they would take a plane, that they'd fly, but imagined himself walking through the surf, walking into the ocean. Wading his way deeper with the weight of this blame, this responsibility, dragging him into the deep, dark waters. He imagined the water as bitingly cold, a cold that gnawed his bones, but he felt nothing. He was beyond hurt or fear or worry. He'd follow Cobb because there was no choice. He'd live without air and hold onto the fact that once_ _Mal had been lovely._

"Wow," Arthur said staring at the screen and then looking over at Eames, who waited on his right. "I don't remember you narrating that."

The author stared at the section that Arthur was helpfully pointing at.

"Interesting," Eames muttered. "When I originally had the idea, I jumped around. I would write the scenes that I couldn't get out of my head and put them in a separate folder because I didn't know what I was going to do with them yet. Then I fit them into the outline I wrote for you. This is just a guess, but I think that even if I write something that is true that actually happened to you, it won't appear as narration until you take the actions I've written."

Arthur considered this. It made sense. Eames hadn't been actively writing the story as Arthur had been a part of it. If anything, Eames had managed to write a story about Arthur (whom till now, he'd never met) and finally have the events sync up during the inception of Robert Fischer. Just a before that, actually, considering the first time he'd heard Eames's narration was during a job that took place before they were hired to extract from Saito.

"I've been writing you and your story for a year. Once I had a better idea of how your story was going, I would play with the timeline, add things to it. Like I did with your Ariadne- I hadn't given her a name, but when I wrote another name in, you actively _recalled_ it, right?"

Arthur nodded. "That was a strange afternoon."

Ariadne, who had been politely quiet during the brunt of this conversation, asked, "Have you spoken to your Ariadne yet?"

"No."

"It's just...I'm curious. Are we really that alike?"

Arthur and Eames shared a look before nodding.

"Very similar," Arthur admitted.

"It's bizarre, really," Eames added.

"You've got a thing for scarves, too!"

"But when I wrote the other Ariadne, she already had a thing for scarves."

Ariadne the PA frowned, a little disappointed. "Wow, there goes any notion of my individuality. On that delightful note, would it be any trouble if I went to bed soon?"

Arthur got out of his chair in front of Eames's laptop and moved to get fresh sheets and bedding for Ariadne. He even got her a new pillowcase for her pillow.

"I'll be fine with what I used last night, darling. I'll sleep on the floor."

Arthur raised an eyebrow and dropped the fresh bedding on the couch, arms free so he could cross them over his chest and look seriously at the author.

"Don't read into this."

Eames paused. "Okay."

"No, really. I mean it."

"Sure."

"Its just that my apartment isn't that big. And Ariadne is going to be sleeping on the couch."

"I understand, Arthur. Where am I going to sleep, then?"

"My bed is big enough for two," Arthur said, not looking in Ariadne's direction, though her silence was angry enough to not need words. "And before you make a comment, Ariadne, I'll remind you that I agreed with your terms." Since the point man hadn't taken his eyes off of Eames, he got to see the man's reaction.

It wasn't like Eames was about to start cheering. No, he looked happy, but that could have been because he wouldn't hurt his back sleeping on the floor. If he could make the comparison without feeling silly, Arthur would say that Eames looked like he'd gotten the best gift ever- whether it was Christmas or his birthday, Eames looked like he was surprised, but also pleased. Arthur could say that Eames was aware that the present he was getting wasn't socks (but that the present also didn't concern anything x-rated either).

"Darling," the author said, "I have to warn you. I tend to cuddle."

"That's fine."

"I also get cold."

"I can leave the heat on low."

"I don't know if this is true, but previous bedmates have told me that I snore."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Eames, I've taken you into my home and have now allowed you to use one half of my bed. I don't care if you cuddle, get cold, or snore. Has it slipped your mind that I like you? I don't share sleeping quarters with people I don't like at least a little bit!"

The point man uncrossed his arms and gestured, first to Ariadne. "If you want to complain, you're going to have to do it now."

The PA took a second before saying, "You're both grown men. I believe that you'll keep your word, Arthur." Then she shot a side-long glance at Eames and muttered, "If you know what's good for you, Eames, you'll follow Arthur's good example."

She then turned her back and began to make her bed on the couch.

This left Arthur and Eames facing off. Arthur was the first to speak.

"Like I said before, don't read into this. I've changed the sheets, so unless you've got anything else to do, we can get ready for bed."

Eames licked his lips, "I'll brush my teeth. Change my clothes," Eames swallowed past the lump in his throat. "Then you can take me to bed."

When he noticed the way Arthur raised his eyebrows, Eames shrugged and smirked. "I had to try and say it at least _once_ , darling!"

* * *

Arthur didn't have a preference for the right or left side of the bed- as a single man, he'd gotten used to situating himself in the middle. If he woke up on the left or right side, it was probably because he'd tossed or turned in his sleep, finally latching onto one of his pillows and cuddling it like it was a soft anchor to hold him in place.

Arthur quickly noticed that with a second body in his bed, he didn't do much turning. While Eames had been polite and kept a decent amount of space between them once they'd gotten under the blanket and sheets, shut off the lights and went to bed, the sleeping point man had ignored politeness in favor of reaching for the new solid object in his bed.

Definitely a better anchor than a pillow. Eames wasn't as soft, Arthur quietly mused to his sleepy self. There were the hard edges of muscles, ridges of bone, but Arthur finally found a comfortable spot somewhere with his face pressed against Eames's chest.

They cuddled. They weren't cold, because in addition to the heavier blanket Arthur had put on his bed, they had each other to keep warm. If either Arthur or Eames snored, neither woke the other up to talk about it.

It was nice.

So nice that when Arthur woke up with Eames wrapped around him, his front pressed to the point man's back, it took the point man a solid minute to remember what the position was called. They were _spooning_.

Arthur thought to himself, _It's my bed. It's my bed and if I want to be the big spoon, I'll be the big spoon, damn it._

It was nice, but nature was calling and Arthur didn't want to have an awkward conversation with Eames about needing to use the bathroom. He also didn't want to have an awkward conversation about what he'd felt pressing up against the small of his back...

But the most Arthur could do was get Eames to let him go for a couple of seconds as the author grumbled to himself sleepily and changed positions

Not wanting to focus on awkward conversations he would actively avoid, Arthur let Eames continue sleeping and decided that it would do him some good to go for a morning run. Looking at his clock, he noticed that it was barely seven!

Either Ariadne and Eames were particularly tired or Arthur had astounding reflexes and very quiet footsteps. He didn't wake either of his guests as he dressed, put his shoes on, grabbed his keys and left the house, locking the door behind him and forgetting his cellphone on the table.

* * *

It was just cold enough for Arthur's breath to steam in the air. There were a few people out this early jogging or walking next to the bluffs. It was a beautiful area with a nice view of the ocean and the beach, the path shaded by trees and spotted with benches and tables.

He skipped the stairs and only noticed that he was being followed when he was making his way back homewards. He'd spotted the same car twice as he'd been running along, thought he recognized the driver and purposely continued following the path, not leading anyone to his home. And if they were who he thought they were, this wasn't going to be pleasant.

He got a break when the people following him from the street decided to stop when he did, their car rolling to a stop where Arthur was taking a breather on the side of the road and taking a sip from his bottled water.

He was greeted by the sight of Yvette and Peter, once again. This time, Yvette didn't even attempt to have a friendly chat with him.

"You'll probably tell me that the author has gone to ground."

"Maybe," Arthur hedged, dropping his empty water bottle into a nearby trashcan. "I have no idea what you're talking about or why you're bothering me. I'm _jogging_." Arthur's fingers itched for a handy blunt object. He never thought that he would have missed that lawn ornament!

Yvette sneered and Peter tried to duck down in the back seat. Arthur frowned at this, wondering why he wasn't sitting in the front with Yvette this time. Yvette stepped out of the car; the door slamming shut was louder than Arthur would have thought. It was still early and Arthur was beginning to notice that there wasn't as much traffic. He began to feel the hair rising on the back of his neck, that strangle prickling sensation.

"We're not here about the author, Arthur. We're here for _you_."

She moved around the car, watching Arthur carefully. Then Arthur saw what she had in her hand.

Arthur didn't have time to swear. He was too busy trying to get as far from Yvette as possible. She had a taser gun. Arthur was already running, doing the math in his head, counting the feet, and trying to move in a zig-zaging motion. Of all the days to have not brought a gun _or_ a lawn gnome!

The range on those taser guns was about fifteen feet- Arthur had gotten maybe half distance before Yvette managed to pull the trigger and plug him on the first try.

Attached to long trailing wires, the barbs exploded from the gun and struck Arthur in the back, digging deep into his skin despite the barrier of his shirt, digging into muscle. And then the shock- a powerful jolt, the crackling zinging of the electricity lighting up his nervous system, forcing his muscles to contract around the barbs. Arthur could barely yell as he fell forwards, his body rigid. He- he couldn't move!

Body trembling with occasional aftershocks, it gave Yvette and Peter time to corral him.

"If you won't give us the author so we can find the ending, we'll do the next best thing and extract it from _you._ Are you going to come quietly, Arthur?"

Arthur was having a difficult time moving his jaw, feeling slow to react, but he did blink his eyes at his attackers and finally managed to say, _"No."_ Even though it felt like his mouth was full of cotton balls. He was surprised he hadn't bitten down on his tongue during the first shock. Peter watched Arthur laying in the grass with a mix of sympathy and sick fear- it was clear that he wasn't going to be much help.

"I'll hit him again," Yvette said, smiling a sick little smile as she pulled the trigger one more time and lit the point man up. Just one more time, just for spite, before she and Peter wrangled Arthur into their car and drove away.


	15. Chapter 15

A.N: Another segment. I promise, denouement isn't a word I just threw in there. We are heading towards the end. It will all come together. But first, I had to have Eames question his feelings, his writing the ending, and why action was happening without him writing it!

Disclaimer: I don't own Inception or Stranger Than Fiction.

"So, he ran away."

"He went for a run. That's very different from running away!"

Eames was grumpily spooning honey onto his oatmeal. He looked at the spoon, glaring weakly at the winking silver, bitterly and irrationally thinking at it: _Yes, this is all your fault._

As if she could hear his thoughts, hear his accusation to the spoon, Ariadne sighed over her cup of coffee, put it down, and began to do as most PAs shouldn't. She reached out and patted the back of his hand, saying, "I know that you probably felt a little embarrassed, but you shouldn't blame the spoon or the spooning for that. Arthur seems like a pretty unshakable guy- why would morning wood bother him?"

Eames didn't have a good answer for that and was already regretting having told her anything. Because he had no idea what other motivations the point man had for leaving so early in the morning, without leaving a note but abandoning his cell phone, Eames attempted to find other reasons to explain it. None of them were very flattering to himself and really only emphasized the one feeling he could put a name to at the moment.

"It's ridiculous. Once I realized he'd left I felt...sort of rejected, maybe."

"I don't know why I have to spell this out for you. It's obvious Arthur likes you. He went on a date with you. When he felt you were threatened by this extraction team he hid you here. And, of course, he's even let you sleep in his bed. I get this feeling that you wouldn't feel quite so bad if you'd actually had a physical relationship with him."

Eames frowned at her, now _moodily_ stirring his oatmeal, noticing that he'd let it sit for too long and now it was the lumpy, unappetizing consistency of paste. "Not that we would have if you hadn't barred us from it already. We're taking it slow, so his offering half of his bed wasn't a come-on. Sex isn't what's keeping us together."

But then, what was if it wasn't that? They liked each other. They were attracted to each other. And the thing keeping them together was the plot, the story, the ending to the novel. Every time he thought of it, looming like a dark thought, he questioned what he had.

Even his explanations didn't help him understand why he felt the way he did when he'd noticed Arthur wasn't home. Maybe rejection wasn't the right word; maybe he felt abandoned, which still wasn't a very rational feeling. Arthur was a grown man, this was his home, and he could do whatever he wanted. Eames was _also_ a grown man- he could do whatever he wanted too and now that would mean sitting down and writing Arthur's ending, the ending that would make his journey complete, something fulfilling! But even as he thought about an ending for Arthur, there was a hesitance he'd not experienced before. He needed to shake it off.

"While Arthur is a walking masturbatory fantasy, whom you have also written to be a walking masturbatory fantasy, I think what you just said is too cute for words."

Eames watched as Ariadne finished her coffee. He had to come up with an answer to that. Yes, when he'd originally had the idea for Arthur, he'd been aware of the man's sex appeal. That he was just the right amount of danger and competence. That it would actually be the competence that would make him sexier. Ariadne calling Arthur a "walking masturbatory fantasy" wasn't exactly wrong, but it wasn't something that Eames was going to shout and wave a banner about. He liked to think that he was a gentleman.

So instead of arguing with her, Eames said, "I'd rather you not draw pictures or attempt to play charades with me. I get it. You think we're cute. We're adorable. We're like a basket of kittens."

The PA rolled her eyes and moved to place her coffee cup in the sink, then came back to the table and eyed Eames's bowl of oatmeal. Eames was currently making the spoon he'd previously been glaring at stand up in the bowl, the oatmeal being so thick that it wasn't a problem.

"That looks as appetizing as glue."

Eames said nothing.

"Maybe Arthur has given us a little time to work on the ending? Maybe he needed a break from both of us considering this apartment isn't that big?"

Eames sighed and stood, looking at the bowl of oatmeal and shaking his head. "There are children starving in China," the author said, picking up the bowl and moving to the sink, filling it with water and allowing it to soak.

Then he rubbed at his eyes and said decisively, "Okay. Maybe I'm overthinking this. He could have gone out for a jog and just forgot his cell phone by accident. It doesn't mean anything. We'll work."

* * *

Eames was carefully typing on his laptop. He kept stopping.

"I know you can do better than that, Eames," Ariadne said at the author's elbow. She was eying the screen, frowning. When he stopped for too long she began to read aloud.

" _Eames, having no idea what to write for Arthur, thought to ask his PA to leave him alone."_ She shook her head, not liking that one bit. "Well?"

Eames looked away from the screen and to his lingering PA. "Leave me alone."

Then, he said, "Its been a couple of hours. If he wanted to give us space, that's fine. But he should have been back by now, right? If Arthur were so worried about dreamsharers coming to steal this ending, why would he leave us alone here?"

Ariadne said nothing. But from the expression on her face it was clear that she'd started to have doubts. "And since he left his phone, we can't call and ask..."

Eames wasn't looking at his laptop anymore. He was staring at Ariadne.

"He- Arthur said something to me when I was questioning him about being, well, you know _him._ He said 'this story had taken on a life of its own'. That even if he did nothing the plot would continue. That it was heading for the denouement, maybe."

"Denouement is French," Eames answered. "As a literary term it references the final acts of a play or a story. Its the climax where something is revealed, when threads of the plot come together and something is either explained or resolved. If Arthur was right, and I'm sure he is, the plot is moving forwards even though we're doing nothing. I'm not writing an ending so the ending is generating itself, forcing Arthur into action."

The PA was looking at the front door, as if Arthur would walk through at just that moment because it would solve their immediate problem of a spontaneous, uncontrolled ending.

Instead, Arthur's cell phone rang.

Sharing a look, Ariadne and Eames looked at the table Arthur had left his phone on.

Though both made a grab for it before the call went to the point man's voice mail, Eames reached it first and answered.

"Arthur's phone," Eames said, waiting patiently for the caller to answer, to say anything.

The other person coughed, managing to sound incredibly uncomfortable over however many miles that separated them. "Oh, um. Hi. I wanted to talk to Arthur, but if he's busy, I could call later?"

If Eames hadn't looked at the name that popped up on Arthur's phone before picking it up, he'd _still_ be able to figure out who this person was. Dominic Cobb, the Squint, had a very particular speech pattern. He also had no idea how to navigate personal relationships. He tended to make things more difficult, he tended to blame people for his mistakes, and he tended to throw people under the bus.

Or the train.

Eames pushed those thoughts away. Because if what was happening was what he was beginning to _think_ was happening, he'd need someone who knew the business of dreamshare. Because even though Eames had written about it, had created every painstaking detail, he'd not let something happen to Arthur because of his own hubris. Not everything was exactly the same, not everything was so close.

And the Squint was supposed to be the best extractor anyway.

"Arthur is currently missing. I'm Eames, the man who is writing his adventure. I think the adventure is now happening without my directing it. Its not something he's taking. Our point man has been Arthur-napped and I need your assistance."

The extractor's pause was long. Eames was half-certain that the man was considering who to call after he'd disconnected the call. Finally Cobb said, "Say it again."

Eames waited for a little more to go on. He'd said a lot.

"Say his name. Give me an entire sentence all about Arthur."

Eames looked at Ariadne, who helplessly shrugged, being close enough that she could hear the extractor's voice, too.

"Arthur isn't perfect. He may make mistakes and sometimes encounter failure. But he's the type to rise to the challenge, to come back from that and say 'Next time. Next time will be different because now I know better.'"

Cobb coughed. "That was a paragraph."

"What can I say, Arthur's always an inspiration."

"He's described your voice, because you were once just a Voice and not an Eames. You're a guy with a British accent and you seem to not only know about us, but you also want to make Arthur happy."

Eames was pointedly not saying anything like 'and you tend to make Arthur's life suck when he occasionally makes a mistake, like with Fischer, come on!'

"I believe you," Cobb said, sounding shocked. "Its crazy. Its weird. But I believe you."

"Will you help us find Arthur?!"

"Yes. Let me arrange for my kids to be picked up from school and babysat and then we'll get to work."


	16. Chapter 16

A.N: Ha, I forgot to put one of these on! Well, I'm sorry this wasn't done on Friday, so I made sure to type something (though short and possibly littered with elusive errors that I will fix later) and post today. The only thing getting me through this week was the image of Arthur throwing someone through a wall and Cobb being a gushing fan of Eames's books.

Disclaimer: I don't own Inception or Stranger Than Fiction.

It took the former extractor very little time to make his arrangements _and_ secure a babysitter. Cobb, who lived close and already knew where Arthur lived, had shown up in a minivan.

Sitting up in the front passenger seat, playing with an idea he'd had as to how to locate Arthur, Eames was patiently typing on his laptop while Cobb refused to shut up. Ariadne politely attempted to hide her laughter while she was nestled in the backseat. She had refused to not be a part of the rescue effort.

"I love your work," Cobb gushed, quickly glancing from the road to Eames and then back again.

"Thanks," Eames said, distracted as he worked.

"When I finally got home, I realized that after a long day I couldn't fall asleep. I spent insomnia ridden nights reading book after book till I finally stumbled over your novels!"

This was usually the moment where Eames would ask which novel was his favorite because Eames was honestly curious about a fan's likes and dislikes. Though he wrote for his own pleasure and published for money, he was always aware of his audience. He was thankful to them for taking a chance and reading his books, for paying good money to read his books, going on the Internet and excitedly ranting about his books. Even if he ran into someone who read one of his books and told him they _hated it_ , Eames considered the criticism a good experience because it kept him humble. He wasn't perfect. Not everyone had to love his work.

But it got under his skin that _Cobb_ loved it. He wasn't even sure why he felt that way!

"That's nice," Eames said, once again trying to project how distracting him was a bad idea just now, but wondered if Cobb was meant to be this thickheaded. They had been thrown together to try and save Arthur, not chat about books! "But could you please just drive the minivan?"

Cobb nodded and stopped his wonder-struck glances. He didn't shut up.

"You're Arthur's author. He spoke to me about you. He thought he was going crazy!"

Ariadne sighed from the backseat. "You sound so excited about your friend's worries over mental illness."

"No!" Cobb looked at the rear-view mirror, spotting the PA who resolutely pointed towards the front of the car and the windshield. Cobb kept his eyes on the road and still talked. "I'm excited that I'm part of the story!"

"A secondary character whose woes and conflict helped drive Arthur's plot," the PA reminded Cobb. "Not the main character."

"But I was in an _Eames novel!"_

"You were in Arthur's story, which is written by me, yes," Eames said shortly. "This thing I'm doing here? This magical thing that involves typing on a laptop with a fully charged battery in the front seat of a minivan? This is an Eames novel in progress. I'm trying to do something that sounds ridiculous when I think it. It's going to sound worse when I say it out loud!"

"And?" Ariadne asked, watching as Eames continued to type, not looking away from his screen. "You've gotten an idea for how to find Arthur."

The author nodded shortly. "Cobb, take the directions as I give them and we'll get there."

Cobb briefly looked over at Eames to be sure that the author wasn't joking. "But you said that you don't know where Arthur is! That he's been Arthur-napped!"

"We're all a part of the story. In some way, shape, or form, we're involved in this. I'm the writer but I've also been cast as the hero."

"I could be the hero," Cobb offered, like he was being polite and doing a favor for Eames who had, until recently, only experienced heroics on paper in stories and novels.

"You're not the hero," Ariadne said, shutting Cobb down while reminding him of his task. "You're the driver."

"I'm the one who actually understands dreamshare!"

"And I've written about it without you, Cobb!" Eames was still typing and not bothering to spare the former extractor a glance. "I've written most of this. And then, after me and Arthur ran into each other, the story's been writing itself. Arthur's being taken and most likely extracted from is just the conflict forcing us into action. Arthur will have to act now. By writing this, I'm going to forge the path- I'm giving the conflict and the plot a defined course."

"But where are we going?" Cobb asked, waiting for further directions.

"Take the next left," Eames said, stopping his typing and looking at the heavy block of text he'd written. "Then a right, then go south for half a mile."

"Did you just write that?"

Eames looked over his shoulder at Ariadne and nodded. "That and something else. I need to give Arthur a warning. I need him to be prepared."

So Eames scrolled down further and began to read aloud.

* * *

Arthur was...muggy.

It was the only way he could describe himself. He felt like he usually felt on a hot, humid day when he'd not drank half enough water and felt so _slow._

He was slow, lethargic and currently curling around Eames in bed.

 _Big spoon status accomplished_ , was Arthur's first thought before he pressed his face against the side of Eames's neck and looked across a room that didn't belong to him.

That was a little confusing. He was in a bed that wasn't his. He was in a bedroom, but not _his_ room.

It was an unfamiliar room and through his lethargy, Arthur was starting to feel uneasy.

"Hey," Arthur whispered. Eames twitched and made a noise, maybe waking up. "Do you remember how you got here?"

Eames, rolling over to face Arthur, frowned and thought it out. "I'm a very lucky man?"

"No, seriously. We're not home."

Eames smiled and shrugged, displaying none of the self-consciousnesses that he usually did. "We came back to my place, fell into bed together, and here we are. What else do you need to know, sweetheart?"

When Eames reached over to run a soothing hand down Arthur's back, the point man flinched suddenly. Arthur could have sworn that he'd felt a _sharp-sore_ spot somewhere on his back as Eames touched him. It was the flaring of pain that gave him pause- just a flash of it, an ache that felt like a nagging reminder. A phantom pain that pierced him and then fluttered away.

"Since when do you call me _sweetheart_ ," Arthur asked, eyes narrowing.

Eames pouted. "Because you're so sweet?"

"That's not what you call me," Arthur said. He felt like he was waiting for something...he kept watching Eames and noticing how little things were _off_. Teeth not so crooked, voice and accent just a little thicker than usual, and for some reason Arthur had begun to think that the _shade of Eames's eyes_ was subtly wrong.

This man, however carefully he'd tried to play it, was trying to forge Eames and doing it badly.

The floor of the bedroom began to tremble and this not-Eames looked towards the floor in strained mock-confusion. If he tried to act any more bewildered that the floor was shaking, he'd pull a muscle.

"A truck passing by this early in the morning is criminal," not-Eames tried to say, before Arthur took one hand and pressed it against the other man's face, covering his generous mouth and stopping him from talking.

And that was when he heard it.

 _"Arthur, kidnapped and held against his will, was clearly being extracted from. Taken down, deep into a dream, this team was trying to steal an ending that was still being written. They'd find nothing they were looking for and Arthur would have to take measures to protect himself from extraction and harm,"_ Eames's voice narrated, not as warm as it was in the past, but worried. _"Little did Arthur know that help was on the way- he would be found, he would be rescued. But that till that point, he was to do everything to save himself from money-hungry, back-stabbing extractors."  
_

"I'm dreaming," Arthur pronounced, knowing that this not-Eames hadn't heard the voice like he had. It gave him a much needed edge.

The forger still pretending to be Eames smacked Arthur's hand away and got out of bed, putting distance between them. Despite his actions, he was still trying to play his part.

"No, don't be silly! We've only just gotten up. We'll have breakfast and talk and..."

The man's words dried up when he noticed how smoothly, how quietly Arthur got out of bed. The springs didn't even squeak as he shifted his weight and stood on the carpeted floor. Then he advanced on this forger, appearing more menacing in sleepwear than any man had a right to be. Sweats and shirt, no socks, and the steely restraint that made Arthur a point man who was hard to startle or shake-up allowed Arthur to get this forger to back up until he hit the nearest wall. His shoulder jostled a picture that was already starting to blur and warp and become a meaningless flash of color inside its shiny metal frame.

In Arthur's mind, this room dreamed up by either this excuse for a forger or one of Arthur's old team mates currently rooting around in his subconscious for the ending to the story, was starting to become less and less defined. The flashes of color were now steadily dripping outside of the metal frame, dropping down this forger's shoulder. It didn't look like he noticed them.

"I'm dreaming," Arthur said with certainty, feeling the ground shake beneath his feet again. But he smiled to himself, nodding and saying, "You almost had me. Whatever you guys have dosed me with is pretty strong, too. But no matter what fancy drugs you pump into my veins to slow me down, you'll never catch me now. I'll kill all of you down here."

Arthur didn't waste anymore time. After tweaking the dream's architecture, Arthur grasped the person attempting to forge Eames by the shirt collar and fucking _threw_ them through the wall.


	17. Chapter 17

A.N: I'm having the worst week ever. I'm only writing because I need something to distract myself. If I find any errors I'll fix them eventually.

Disclaimer: I don't own Inception or Stranger Than Fiction.

Arthur calmly stepped through the hole in the wall, watching as the forger still wearing the shape of Eames managed to drag himself backwards on the grass where he'd fallen, eyes wide with shock. He was digging his fingers deep into the dirt.

"Drop the forgery," Arthur said, his tone sharp. It brooked no argument. Any stammering from the forger was silenced immediately by the sight the point man made after emerging from the bedroom that wasn't his.

The ground still shook and the environment they found themselves in was a little...strange. They were in Eames's neighborhood.

But Arthur could care less. He was resting one hand against his chest, just over his heart, and sort of _pulled_ the material of his soft shirt away while manifesting something a little more appropriate to wear while threatening a dream thief, thinking: _I'd rather not commit dream murder while wearing sweatpants._

As he smoothly completed the pulling motion, his sleepwear vanished only to be replaced by a suit- the transition was seamless and perfect. A cool looking dreamshare trick! He was almost sad that his audience of one was probably too frightened of him to clap.

Feeling a little better wearing a nice suit and dreamed up shoes on his formerly unshod feet, Arthur felt that he could begin.

Under Arthur's expectant watch, the forger finally shook off the forgery, revealing that he was a rather mild mannered, pleasantly attractive man. Trembling on the ground, not daring to move an inch without Arthur okaying it first, this forger said, "Please don't kill me."

* * *

When they found it, Eames had to stand outside of the little warehouse that he'd made up ten minutes ago on the ride. It looked just as he'd imagined it while writing, fleshing out the details of the building when Cobb rounded the corner and stopped in front of it, saying "You mean here?"

Cobb moved to stand at Eames's side, looking from the author to the warehouse.

"Got a thing for warehouses?"

Eames shook his head. "It made sense- the fact that you've worked in warehouses before wasn't something I _made_ you do. It's not like I pointed at my computer screen demanded that you guys work in warehouses."

"But if you've been writing from Arthur's perspective all along, then in a backhanded sort of way you _have_ been choosing warehouses since Arthur always secures our working locations and most often picks a warehouse."

Ariadne snorted, standing closer to Eames's other side. "From what I've read so far, that does tend to happen."

Cobb leaned around Eames to chime in, "Yes. Not that Arthur strictly chooses warehouses for us to work out of every time. We've also used hotels, trains, and planes."

Eames raised an eyebrow at the sight Cobb made trying to participate in the conversation. "I could make a terrible Dr. Seuss joke, but we're here on a rescue mission. Let's storm the warehouse."

Then Eames led the way.

* * *

"I'm not impressed."

"I'm not trying to impress you, I just don't want to die!"

"We don't die in dreams. Unless you've done something very stupid?"

The unnamed forger whined and didn't answer which Arthur figured was answer enough. _Somebody did something stupid._

He looked around a dreamscape clearly modeled after Eames's neighborhood and then began to beautifully bend it to his will. Arthur had forced the sun to set and rise half a dozen times within the last few minutes. He chose to let the sun set. It was now night, but the stars shone brightly in the pitch dark sky. Arthur rearranged the constellations into new patterns- he made impossible objects out of the stars in the sky. He looked down the street from his spot on what was supposed to be Eames's front lawn, noticing the homes didn't quite look the same as they did in real life, frowning over the crummy job and wondering if he'd mention it to Peter when he got the chance. Before he killed him, of course.

Arthur was turning their dreamscape version of Eames's neighborhood on it's head, letting them know how they've screwed up, how they've underestimated him...

And then Arthur sort of listed to the side, having enough presence of mind to dream up something to lean against. A nearby tree helpfully bent towards him, allowing Arthur to lean his weight against it and clear his head. The bark was rough beneath his fingers, reassuringly solid despite how far it had to lean to manage this.

"Are you okay?" the forger asked, still on the ground, still fearful.

Arthur felt slow. He had to shake his head and when he spoke he very carefully enunciated the words. "No. I'm being extracted from. I know I'm dreaming. But I also don't think I'm real. I'm having one of those weeks, you know?"

* * *

Cobb surprised the chemist playing sentinel over her sleeping team plus their mark. Cobb drew a pistol from a holster he'd worn against his lower back and squinted at the woman, who paled and held her hands up. Eames, who had followed Cobb's lead in this once they entered the building, was impressed.

The chemist was standing next to the chair Arthur had been handcuffed to. The sleeping point man was sitting near enough to the lounging team attached to the PASIV by trailing IV lines, but there was just enough space between Arthur and the other team to imply that they weren't very comfortable with the idea of dreaming so near to a man they'd known the reputation of- the hushed stories told of the point man's skill getting out of sticky situations was positively Arthurian. The PASIV was sitting on a card table in the middle of the little circle of dreamers, the machine on and making that distinctive hissing noise as Somnacin was pumped through the lines.

"Please don't shoot!" the chemist begged. "They called me in at the last minute! They interrupted my vacation for this! If I had my way I'd be in Bermuda!"

"It doesn't change the fact that you've stolen my former point man," Cobb said as he nodded at Eames, who was unarmed if one didn't count the laptop he carried but looked ready to do something when he spotted the taser gun, the bruise on Arthur's face, and how tight the cuffs were on his darling's wrists.

"He's the one you'll have to answer to. And then, when Arthur wakes up, he'll want a chance to chat."

She shivered at the word _chat_. A look passed over Cobb's face that practically screamed 'Why do I have to wave a gun around to be taken seriously and all Arthur has to do is threaten people with a lecture?'

Eames spotted that look but reminded himself of his goal. He needed to get Arthur out of here. He'd set his laptop down on the nearest flat surface that didn't have any dream technology on it and then approached the sleeping point man. That bruise was going to become quite a shiner.

He examined the place on Arthur's arm where he'd been fitted with the IV line, noticed the bruising there as well. When he reached out to touch it, the chemist made a strangled noise.

"What did you do and why do you want me to not bother the line?"

The chemist grit her teeth and began to carefully step away from both Cobb and Eames. She didn't expect to run into Ariadne, who had been waiting closer to the door.

"Why don't you just make this easier for us?" the PA asked sweetly, startling the chemist into spinning on the spot and staring at the third member of the 'Lets Rescue Arthur' party.

"Detaching him isn't going to wake him," the chemist finally said, looking fearfully from Ariadne, to Eames, and to Cobb. "This mix is all about depth. They wanted him stuck deep, they wanted him relaxed and kind of slow, they asked me to dose him with enough to shut his mouth." She rolled her eyes and then rephrased herself. "What Yvette wanted was to get him in the right state of mind to tell her the secrets. Or if she couldn't get him to talk, at least get his sub-security to loosen up so she could find what she wanted."

Eames glared at her. "So, you've basically made him loopy? Stoned? You've sent him off on a trip to la-la-land and thought that he'd give up anything willingly?"

She swallowed hard and half-nodded. "I didn't have enough time. This was the best I could do. Arthur was more than they could handle, even with the taser gun. By the time they got him handcuffed to that chair, he was still lucid." When she stopped for a breath, it was a shaky one. "He whispered something to me when I was dosing him with the sedative I'd whipped up. He said 'Don't mess with the main character.' "

She shot them worried looks. "He's not crazy, right? I mean, I'd heard about that bet ages ago. And I only jokingly put down some cash, cause if you don't play, you won't win, you know?"

Cobb didn't like this news, but for the wrong reason. "I didn't make him crazy! Working with me didn't make him crazy!"

"Is this really what you're going to focus on?" Eames asked. "Not the drugging or the taser gun or the extraction?"

Cobb frowned at Eames. "It's a bet. A popular bet about whether or not I drove Arthur crazy. So, go on and tell her." Cobb made a gesture with the hand holding the pistol and the chemist flinched in response.

"Fine," the author sighed. "Hi, I'm Mr. Cadby Eames, but please just call me Mr. Eames. I've written four best selling novels and you've stolen the main character of my work in progress. He _is_ my main character so what he said to you before doesn't satisfy the terms of this bet you've mentioned. We could go round and round with this but it's much easier if you just step out of the way and let us take care of this."

The chemist said nothing at first. She watched as Eames moved to grab another chair and move it closer to where Arthur was sitting. Then, Eames carefully detached another line from the PASIV, Cobb watching his progress but not interfering just yet.

The extractor offered the gun to Ariadne, saying, "I'm not saying that you'll have to shoot anyone, it's just that I'd rather you have it on you. And the safety is more internal with this model, so don't bother looking for some switch."

Ariadne gave him a bored look but took the gun with care. "I'm a PA, Mr. Cobb. I've a working knowledge of most things my authors require or write about. At times, I help arrange and collect data for their research."

"You've used a gun before?"

She shrugged. "I know enough to not shoot myself in the foot. I also know how to give First Aid as if I'm in Post-Revolution America, how to theoretically prepare for a zombie apocalypse, can do some coding, and I can make sushi."

Cobb looked impressed and Eames was already rolling his eyes and walking towards them just as Cobb was saying something like, "You know, if we've got any time afterwards, we could go out for coffee or-"

The extractor stopped talking as soon as Eames grasped the man by the arm and dragged him over to the spot he'd prepared for them near Arthur and the PASIV.

"Stop trying to chat up my PA and give me a hand with this needle."

"I wasn't trying to pick up your PA," Cobb assured Eames. He waited for Eames to take a seat in one of the hard-backed wooden chairs next to Arthur, his shirtsleeve already rolled up to the elbow so his forearm was bare.

"Keep this in mind," Cobb was saying as he carefully searched for a prime spot to insert the IV, "It's going to be weird when you get down there. Very weird. You might have to do something to hide yourself until I can find you."

Eames nodded and ignored the pinch of the needle. It was sharp, but the way the Somnacin felt as it began to speed into his bloodstream was different. He didn't expect it to hit him so hard- every time he'd written a scene like this, he'd thought it would be like gently falling asleep. That was how he'd always thought of it. But it wasn't gentle, really. He wondered why he'd ever thought that this was so quick- it was clear that it took at least a minute for the drugs to begin to work! He squeezed the arms of is chair and waited.

He heard the hissing of the PASIV and closed his eyes, still feeling uncomfortably awake. But then he heard Arthur next to him- his breathing was soft and even, and it brought Eames back to his morning before Arthur went out for a run and was taken away. There was something comforting in having the point man so close physically even though he'd probably be levels down in the dream by now.

But Eames would find him. He was certain of it.

And that was the moment he finally nodded off.

* * *

When he opened his eyes again he was on a street. He looked around and noticed several things at once.

First, the towering skyscrapers that seemed to reach up and up to touch the clouds were swaying on the spot. The ground was shaking, too. He looked around and found others, projections no doubt, and watched as they became more and more agitated.

Second, after noticing the projections, he couldn't help but notice that he'd garnered their attention, too.

Projections of business men, projections of food cart operators. Projections of every age, ethnicity, and gender would begin to pass him by but stop and stare.

Turning to catch his reflection in a window, Eames made a decision. He looked too much like _himself_. He needed a disguise. And Cobb did say to hide, didn't he?

Before the projections could get any more ideas about what to do with him, Eames walked down a nearby alley, startling the dreamed up alley cats as he moved down an alleyway that was improbably long. It came with a sudden twist and Eames found himself at a dead-end.

He couldn't hear anyone following him so he took his time- he was about to do something he'd never tried before outside of writing.

He pulled up his sleeve and looked at the tattoo on his wrist.

 _When I write it feels like I'm carving bone._

Then, pressing his thumb to the tattoo, he wished it away. When he moved his thumb away, it revealed clean, ink free skin.

Eames then manifested a pen and began to write on his bare forearm, his printing clear.

 _Beatrice- the middle child, the boring girl who would never get her promotion because she was a shade too meek, had come to the sudden, startling realization that she would have to make a change. That she'd never get anywhere unless she dreamed bigger._


	18. Chapter 18

A.N: I intended to have this posted by Friday but stupid things happened leading to my first draft being deleted and my desire to work on it gone. So I figured I'd give it another shot today.

Disclaimer: I don't own Inception or Stranger Than Fiction. The story I mention, Beatrice's story, is something I made up to stand as Eames's very first successful novel. If I left any errors I'll fix them later.

Eames had been exploring the trembling dreamscape, holding onto his carefully crafted disguise. When he felt someone's hand on his shoulder, he almost jumped out of his new skin and shape, risking disrupting the now only mildly agitated projections which still milled around on the streets.

"Calm down," Cobb softly said, stepping around Eames and getting into his line of sight. The extractor was a welcome, squinting sight. Dom Cobb, the Squint, was at his squintiest as he took in Eames's disguise. Eames felt a little self-conscious. He must have done something wrong if Cobb had spotted him so easily!

"Am I so awful that you knew it was me the second you got down here?"

Cobb shook his head, looking a little impressed. "No. No, you're perfect. You look just like I imagined she would be as I read your book. You're Beatrice!"

They were standing next to a reflective surface, a window. Eames looked at his reflection to see if this was true. He knew it was true, but still needed to check because he still felt...strange. In the reflection, Cobb had still had his hand on a young, slight woman's shoulder. Her skin was the warm, gentle tone of toffee. Her dark hair was styled in a pixie cut that flattered her delicate features. Beatrice, Eames's first protagonist, the main character of his very first novel, wasn't intimidating or scary or the least bit violent.

Of all the people he could have chosen to adopt the shape of in such a dangerous environment, he chose _her_. Beatrice was gentle and kind- maybe too quiet and afraid of risks, but still rather sweet. He'd given her the ending she'd needed. Beatrice got her promotion; she ended up changing her life, changing the opinions about her. At the end of the story she knew she was going places, that she was going to achieve her goals!

Eames smiled, watching his Beatrice-shaped reflection smile, too. He remembered what his life had been like when he was writing Beatrice- he'd been driven but not successful. He wasn't starving, he managed to get his bills paid on time, but there seemed to be something missing from his life. He'd set out to write a novel, to hopefully sell it but also prove that he could do it. At the time he hadn't been aware of how much of his own wishes and hopes and desires he'd written into Beatrice's character.

He'd allowed some part of him to become that character, giving Beatrice and her story a special sort of shine. His writing was engaging, allowing readers to fall into the story, to follow Beatrice's journey and become invested in her happiness. As _Beatrice_ in this dream, he felt real because of all the effort he'd put into her character, her story, and how his expectations and wishes made her realistic.

And now, looking at his new reflection, Eames realized that what he called writing, _for him_ , was just forgery.

A _good_ forgery for someone who'd never experienced forgery outside of writing about it from Arthur's perspective.

Cobb also looked at their reflections in the window, removing his hand from Eames's shoulder. "This is an excellent forgery," Cobb said, watching as Eames reached into the small purse hanging from his other shoulder, the reflection did the same. Eames as Beatrice pulled a small tube of lip gloss out of the purse and began touching up- otherwise, Beatrice looked fine in her business clothes, things that Eames wrote in so they wouldn't stick out. A pencil skirt (which in Chapter 27 of her story Beatrice learned how amazing her legs looked) and the matching jacket, a wine-red business shirt neatly tucked into the skirt, and sensible heels. She looked good.

 _Healthy, vibrant, alive._ Eames had actually written those words over his heart, unbuttoning his shirt in the alley and carefully adding them to the lines of ink on his body- calling on the character of Beatrice and treating her image like a shelter, inscribing the words which made her real into his skin so they could seep through the flesh and into the bones. He reclaimed the part of her which was his, wearing her shape as a second skin.

"I mean," Cobb said, staring as Eames carefully applied the lip gloss and not a single projection bothered them with a second glance, "I've worked with some great forgers. I hired the best for the Fischer job!" Now Cobb looked a little unsure. "You actually remind me of him a little bit."

Eames pressed his lips together, watching his reflection do the same, assuring himself that being stuck in a female shape with a female reflection wasn't going to last forever. That he wouldn't get stuck this way. He just took a small breath and tried to not worry about how snugly he fit into this identity and what it might say about him as a man.

"No," Eames answered, forcing himself to recall Beatrice's voice exactly, worrying that his accent was going to slip through if he wasn't careful, that Beatrice's soft voice would drop a comical octave. Beatrice's voice held strong and Eames continued speaking. "I tried writing myself in- it was silly, but at the time I did what writers sometimes do and kind of jumped into the story as a secondary character. But your forger is ultimately just similar to me. We share certain characteristics but are different entities." Eames shrugged and put the lip gloss back into the purse and slung the purse back over his shoulder. "I'll admit we're a little closer now that I've successfully forged."

Cobb shook his head. "My forger and you. My Ariadne and your PA. Is there a double for me? For Arthur?"

Eames thought about it. "No. Arthur is singular and unique. And you're the Squint, the one and only. If you ever had a double he might be less mad. Maybe."

"I get it. Arthur's wonderful."

"I agree."

"And in comparison, I'm just not that amazing."

"It's definitely your cross to bear."

"Arthur's great. He's loyal and smart and effortlessly intimidating. I have to work at it. And even when I do, I don't come off nearly as well as Arthur. If you wrote me this way, if I'm actually a part of this _thing_ , was there a reason for that?"

Eames looked over at Cobb, frowning. "I doubt that you'd really like to hear that."

"Try me."

"No."

"Please?"

"Fine," Eames said, rolling his eyes. "As a secondary character you gave Arthur's plot a focus- your life went to hell when your wife died, who, I might add, had the greater bond to Arthur. Arthur protected you and followed you for her sake. Once you were safe and with your children again, Arthur was free to do whatever he wanted." Eames nodded to himself. "That's what I'm going to do for Arthur once this is over. I'll write his ending."

"You'll publish the story."

Eames was still exploring how this concept made him feel. He'd worked so hard on Arthur's story. He was so proud of it, what it said about him as a writer. He loved looking back on the journey he had taken and often wondered what it would be like to pick his book up in a store, take it to a coffee shop and sit down to read. But that was usually where his thoughts would falter. And Cobb, being the excellent extractor he was, picked up on that.

"You'll publish Arthur's story as a work of fiction. The book will be available in stores and online. His life will be paper and ink or pixels on an e-reader. If he already worries now about being real, I doubt that this will help him much."

"We need to rescue him now, Cobb. We do that first. It's the most important thing."

"And the publishing?"

Eames linked arms with Cobb and began to tug the taller man away, determined that they get a move on. Cobb reluctantly followed.

"I have an idea that might work," Eames said. "At least I think it will work. We need to find Arthur, first."


	19. Chapter 19

A.N: Late, late, late. But it's here.

Disclaimer: I don't own Inception or Stranger Than Fiction.

After Arthur righted himself he began to march determinedly away from the lawn and down the shaking streets. The man who had been attempting to distract him with a forgery of Eames sort of followed after him. Uncertain, afraid, but unable to look away, this forger lingered when he should have taken the chance to run.

It was clear that Arthur didn't notice him anymore- eyes set on the horizon, Arthur walked fearlessly down the road, not encountering a single car or projection. He was on his way, he was going somewhere.

The forger caught up with him, huffing a little but then keeping the pace to stay at Arthur's side.

"I want you to know there are no hard feelings," the forger begged.

Arthur didn't respond immediately. When he did the sarcasm was palpable. "I'm so _glad_ you don't resent me. Because I think I resent everything to do with this situation enough for the both of us. I'm capable of a enough resentment to fill a quartet."

"I was called in at the last minute. The very last minute! I didn't have much of a chance to study the forge- I winged it. For a job done in the eleventh hour, I feel that it was pretty convincing."

"It wasn't," Arthur grimaced, still looking ahead, not bothering to look at the man who followed him. "Its impossible to forge him. He's one of a kind. You don't learn how to be Cadby Eames at the last minute. You don't get to mimic my author after-," Arthur paused and actually looked at the forger next to him. "What in the hell did you do to prepare for this? Your work was sloppy. There was no attention to detail. Your depiction of Eames wasn't real."

"From what you said before you don't quite think you're real either."

* * *

"Things are looking good," Cobb said as he observed the projections they passed on the sidewalk. "They aren't too agitated, the tremors have slowed. We might have a chance to do some extraction."

Eames, still wearing the character of Beatrice as his forgery, held onto Cobb's arm and observed the projections, too. He murmured to Cobb, "Do you think we have time for that?"

"There's always time for extraction. We may only be on the first level, but there's always a chance we could learn the basics."

"Arthur has been taken and extracted from because they think he knows my ending."

"We already know that. We don't know the ending."

"I have an idea."

Cobb didn't say anything for a moment. He moved aside just enough to let a shorter, shabbily dressed man begin to pass him. But he stopped him with one hand on the man's shoulder.

"Excuse me, I'm lost. Can you point me in the right direction?"

The shorter man grumbled at Cobb and took little notice of Eames. "Its not a direction. You'll never get there standing still."

Eames was about to say something when Cobb squeezed his his hand, warning him.

"I'm supposed to meet my friend. I need to find a way."

Eames wouldn't have been able to tell if he hadn't spotted the shift, the subtle change of the ground beneath their feet. He half-listened to the short man not say much of anything to Cobb. It didn't sound like anything useful to him, but Cobb was nodding and thanking the man.

"You learned something," Eames said as he examined the sidewalk.

"Doesn't matter which way we go," Cobb said. "The maze is probably built as a circle- eventually we'll find him if we take a path and follow it for long enough."

"And we've got a trail to follow."

Eames indicated the line of gold that had manifested within the street, a line that seeped up out of the concrete and asphalt. The line started on the sidewalk beneath their feet and continued as if it had been drawn in one sweeping line that eventually cut across the street and the road next to it.

Cobb examined it and nodded to himself. "This will work fine. This will lead the way to Arthur. Then you can start with your plan."

Eames gave Cobb a careful once over, looked at their still clasped hands and said, "You're an excellent extractor, Cobb. You're so good I'll upgrade you from _mad_ to _questionably_ _dreamy_."

Cobb frowned at him and then let go of his hand. "Only _questionably dreamy_ _?_ I'm sure you call Arthur something better- not that I'm going to compete with him. That would be a little creepy."

"Arthur will always be charming. Always. And now I'm going to find him."

Eames began to follow the line, waiting for Cobb to follow after him and get over how _questionably dreamy_ he was.


	20. Chapter 20

I'm sorry for any errors- I'm typing one-handed.

I don't own Inception or Stranger than Fiction or any mentions of Coldplay's "Adventure of a Lifetime" music video (the song being one of my themes for this story).

They followed the line. They followed it without deviating; there were no shortcuts. They passed unworried projections and violated several traffic laws without causing a scene.

Eventually even Cobb had to frown and question this behavior as they crossed diagonally from corner to corner on a street that didn't feature diagonal crossing. The cars they obstructed merely stopped. There was hardly any honking or expletives from the drivers they passed. When they made it to the corner, he stopped Eames.

"I'm not doing this. Are you doing this?"

Eames, still as Beatrice, had spent most of the walk down the golden line very quietly whispering to himself. He stopped when Cobb questioned him.

"Don't let me lose my train of thought," Eames said before he went back to work. _"Arthur may just be around the corner. He could just be down the next block or two. But I'd walk the next twelve blocks- the next twenty blocks- if it meant I saw him safe."_

The extractor's eyes widened. "You're doing the narration thing? Are you trying to engineer the rescue, make it follow some kind of plot in Arthur's story?"

Eames shook his head. "It's not just his story. What I'm starting to realize is that when I write, I put something of me, something that I want or need into the character and achieve a goal or a dream and make it theirs. Me and Arthur are so similar but we've traded places now. If I'm the dreamer now, Arthur's the writer. He's searching for the ending like I was. He may have started this thing with the threat of an adventure, but now he'll probably be looking for the end like I was before. Arthur's not just on an adventure, he's going on a journey."

"It's like the adventure of a lifetime."

"If you say that three times in a row, Chris Martin is going to come after you and make you dance like a choreographed CGI monkey."

"Really?"

"Keep walking and we'll find out!" Eames said to Cobb before he began to narrate his own story.

* * *

Arthur ignored the forger. He wasn't saying anything he didn't already know. There was a chance he wasn't real. He had to do something to resolve this issue.

He was still walking. He hadn't bothered to stop for the forger- there was something more important he should be doing. He had to find something. Arthur frowned, thinking, _But what is it?_

The drugs were muddling him. He stumbled and righted himself once more, keeping his eyes on the horizon. He felt as if he was waiting for something to happen...

* * *

Eames continued to whisper-narrate as he walked, focusing on this, holding onto it like a lifeline. For the most part, Cobb didn't bother him much; he only grasped the still forging author's elbow and directed him to not stray from the line they followed.

 _"I'm almost there,"_ Eames said, _"Nearly there."_

Cobb shook his head. "You've changed point of view, too. You went from the third person to the first person. It's the story from your point of view, even though Arthur's supposed to be the main character."

"We're all characters now," Eames said. "All of us. But Arthur and I, we're both main characters. This plot isn't just about our lives- it's about our relationship. This story is about _us._ _"_

"Of all the things to fall into after an inception," Cobb said, half in wonder. "Of all the things that Arthur could have gotten himself into after that mess of a job, he gets stuck in a romance. If I asked him how being the main character of a romance novel would make him feel two or three years ago, I don't think he'd be too pleased."

"It's not a romance novel. It's a fiction that involves some romantic situations, death and tragedy, and a little science fiction styled crime. If Arthur were stuck in a romance, he'd have solved his problems by falling in love or remaining alone, whichever he wanted most. But he's still working, he's still looking for something to define him. He doesn't believe that he's real anymore, Cobb. He's not looking for love, exactly; he's looking for _self-actualization_."

Cobb shrugged as he kept walking with Eames, looking around for something, anything that could be used to hide one missing point man and the rest of the team trying to extract from him. "I'm not saying he wouldn't mind being in love- the way I keep saying it is wrong. I know it is. Before, I held him back for so long he didn't get a chance to live to his full potential or do what he wanted."

Eames would have said something in response to that but he felt this _pull_ , this _rightness_ as he lingered before a rather plain, boring building.


	21. Chapter 21

A.N- This is a bit longer than what I've posted lately. It's nearly the end of Spring Break and I've been stuck dealing with a strained neck from hell. Today was better than yesterday so I figured I'd treat myself to a nice long chapter! And treat you guys, as well! If I missed any errors I will fix them later!

Disclaimer: I don't own Inception or Stranger Than Fiction.

When they broke into the plain, boring building, the first thing they encountered was the sight of a young man awkwardly jumping from his seat and fumbling with a gun, not too far from where his team and his mark were sleeping, attached to the PASIV.

The second, more eye catching thing they encountered was various forms of paper attached to every wall- pages that had been printed from a computer, pages that were handwritten on notebook paper, and notes written on the backs of take-out menus or utility bills.

Eames ignored this in favor of dropping his forgery, taking pleasure in the way the young man's eyes bugged out when slight, non-violent Beatrice was replaced with a furious Eames.

"Oh crap," said Peter with a whimper, having already abandoned his weapon if favor of showing them his empty hands. "And I thought the worst of this was over when we caught up to Arthur on this level..."

Cobb moved to examine the notes on the walls while Eames moved past Peter to check on Arthur.

The point man wasn't handcuffed this time. Maybe it was proof of what that chemist had explained- making Arthur slower, less capable of defending himself or escaping if he managed to kick himself awake to the next level.

Eames crouched next to the lawn chair Arthur had been left on. He wasn't sure what to say, how to even start. "Darling," Eames tried, watching Arthur's sleeping face, struck by how defenseless he seemed here. Arthur didn't respond to the sound of Eames's voice.

* * *

Arthur's steps had slowed. He'd left the forger behind some time ago but wasn't surprised when he heard the sound of footsteps near to him again. Before, he'd heard something else. Something that went _pop-pop_ , but Arthur couldn't recall what the noise was meant to represent.

He was getting a little fuzzy. The words came to him, sort of slow. _I'm on a journey._ Yes, that sounded about right. That was why he was walking. What the _pop-pop_ sound meant wasn't important to him so he stopped thinking about it.

The sound of footsteps he was hearing now was different from the forger's shuffling steps. The gentle breeze brought the sound to him, he could swear it. He heard the sound of footsteps and something else. It was voice floating along the breeze, using it, following him as surely as the footsteps. The breeze, it spoke before passing him by, whispering, _Darling._

Arthur could swear the voice was familiar but wasn't sure where it was coming from, if that friendly sort of breeze had just picked up the word like any of Arthur's stray thoughts. The word was a lost thing, too. Arthur was a lost thing, as well.

Why else would he go on a journey? When he thought of this, the sky changed obligingly from night to day. A journey starting in the daylight was much more hopeful than one taken in the middle of the night.

He came to a stop and looked up at a sky so blue it almost hurt to look at. He shaded his eyes with one hand and looked up and up, not minding the sting of it. Though he shaded his eyes, he had yet to spot the sun in the vast blue stretch of sky that went on forever.

The footsteps, once so far away, came to a halt next to him now as he stood on the road and thought, _How did I get here?_

A voice (not the voice) said, "Look at how long it took to find you, Arthur." Arthur turned to look at her. "Sometimes I think you live to make people work much harder than they have to."

Arthur frowned, noticing that there was something wrong. "I remember you," Arthur said looking at her dark curling hair, her bitter little smile, and the shine of her eyes in the sunless day. There was something off-putting about her. "I don't like you much."

She smiled at him and clasped his arm as if they were old friends and Arthur, attempting to be polite, tried to not notice the blood underneath her fingernails. "That's funny. Because I don't like you very much, either."

* * *

"We needed at least two levels to give Yvette the chance she needed to find the ending," Peter explained after Eames had rounded on the man set to play sentinel and hold the first dream level.

"Is that why you've got my outline posted on the walls?"

Peter swallowed hard and nodded. "We- we took them. Anything we could find in your house related to the novel. We looked and looked but couldn't find it in any of your outlines. I memorized much of it so I could take it down here, make it a part of the build for this hideaway. I treated your ideas and themes as a fixture. I built them into this structure like I would lights or furniture."

He said the last thing hopefully, looking over in Cobb's direction. "I know you don't do it anymore, Mr. Cobb, but I've heard really good things about your skills as an architect."

Cobb didn't even take the compliment. He shook his head, long since finished looking at the stolen and repurposed information on the walls. "Yet here you are on the first level of an extraction against a man who would gleefully rip you apart. You're trying to curry favor from me by telling me how you stole information and incorporated it into your designs. Sure," Cobb admitted. "It's clever. But clever doesn't move me to forgive you for kidnapping my former point."

Peter deflated and sank into the chair he'd occupied before, both Cobb and Eames blocking him in, keeping the man in place so he could look from left to right and worry about the knowledge that help wouldn't come from either man.

"That outline is incomplete," Eames said, gesturing to what was on the walls. "Your merry little group decided to come after Arthur for an ending you couldn't even find evidence of on paper?"

Peter bit his lip. "No, not just that. He said so. That's what he said before- that he had the ending and we didn't because we didn't stay. Then he broke our car window with a lawn gnome and told us to leave you alone."

Eames and Cobb shared a look.

"Sounds like Arthur," Cobb said. "His main job as a point man is the success of the job and the safety of his team."

Together, Cobb and Eames said, "Woe to any who screwed with the perfection of a job."

"That sounds like Arthur," Peter said, adding in his two cents, unasked.

What Eames wasn't saying, but was thinking really loudly was _But I'm not not his team- I was his mark, I am his author. He didn't have to protect me from a second extraction only to get pulled in for one himself!_

But even Eames had to recall that Arthur was too loyal. That for all his years working in dreamshare, he had morals and a good sense of right and wrong. That it would be wrong to have Eames's next book not get published because of a failed extraction and a greedy, double-crossing team.

They'd agreed that what was happening couldn't be coincidental. That there was something bigger going on. Arthur acknowledged the story he was in- he referenced the plot, the conflict, and the denouement. All were literary terms that Eames understood and could even agree with. But in his heart of hearts, one level down in Arthur's mind, he couldn't help but think that the Arthur who felt so real as he'd first written him, felt real as he'd worked for a over year ironing out all the details and fleshing him out, was just a shadow of the man who walked into his dreams, gun drawn and ready to defend him.

Eames didn't want the well-loved fiction, he wanted the reality. For a man who had spent the last few years of his life profiting on dreams he put to paper, he wanted to keep the last for himself. He just wanted _Arthur_. The thought kind of choked him up a little, so it took him a second to get his head together and respond when Cobb said something.

"Yes? Sorry, I drifted off for a second..."

If Cobb noticed the path Eames's thoughts had taken, he didn't say anything. The extractor cleared his throat and nodded to Peter.

"He may be docile now, but I'm not betting on his good behavior if we both go under. I'm staying on this level with him and..." Cobb paused and looked at Peter, gesturing to the man attached to the PASIV, dreaming closest to Arthur. "Who is that? What's his name and why hasn't he woken up yet?"

"That's our forger. He was just meant to distract Arthur for a little while on the second level that Yvette was dreaming. It was just so Yvette could have a fighting chance at finding the ending..." Peter even gestured at the sleeping Yvette, who was positioned furthest from Arthur than the rest, frowning in her sleep.

"I think he just wanted his _name_ , Peter."

"He's-"

But Peter didn't get to reveal the forger's name because that forger suddenly jerked awake, wild-eyed and scared. He ripped his IV out and leaned over the side of his lawn chair to vomit. It didn't look like much, though Eames wasn't making it a point to examine it- it could have been the remains of a scant breakfast or lunch. Eames was just glad that he was well out of the way of the mess- that Arthur was, too.

"Oh god," the man said, taking deep breaths of air, forcing himself to try and calm down, even though he didn't look any happier to see Eames or Cobb next to the seated architect. "That bitch!"

Cobb was at the man's side in an instant. "It's alright. You're awake now. What's happening down there?"

The forger swallowed around the taste of bile and forced out an answer. "Oh, I messed up. He _knew_. He _knew_ I wasn't him!" When the forger's eyes locked on Eames, who approached the still seated forger slowly. The forger's eyes widened as he took him in.

"He was right. I didn't get you right at all. I did a bad job. I'm a not a bad forger, I just didn't have enough time!"

Eames nodded, as if he could sympathize with this man over how he struggled to trick Arthur into believing he was really Mr. C. Eames. It made Eames want to smile at the still dreaming Arthur, to praise his darling for being so clever and perceptive and being able to tell which was which even in a dream where he was drugged. But that wouldn't be appropriate right now.

"I'm a bit of complex character," Eames said instead. "Did Arthur kick you out of the dream when he found out?"

The forger shook his head. "He- he threw me through a wall."

Eames looked over at Cobb to gauge the extractor's reaction and was heartened by how impressed Cobb was.

"Must have cracked your head pretty hard then. Killed you with a bit of bleeding on the brain, skull fracturing? That's Arthur to a T, Eames. Deadly with and without handguns."

But the forger was still shaking his head. "No. No. I survived the trip through the wall. We talked. He's tearing apart the dream you built, Peter. He's changing things as he goes. He was walking away and I tried to keep up but he didn't want company. I was being left behind when _she_ found me."

The forger actually shivered. "God, she's so cold. She- god, she shot me twice in the head without saying a damned word!" The forger, either due to stress or his remembering his death in the dream, got a little teary. He brushed at the stupid, futile tears anyway, groaning, "Who does that? Who does that?!"

Cobb, because he was closest, patted the forger on the shoulder and sent a look Eames's way. "You're saying that Yvette came over and killed you. I'm guessing she didn't find what she was looking for and wanted to do a little venting."

The forger shot Cobb a disbelieving glance. "She didn't want to vent." The forger said as he wiped at his face, his cheeks going all red and blotchy where he rubbed with a clenched fist. "She said, 'He doesn't have it.' Then she shot me twice. She didn't want me there to see. She didn't want a witness." The forger's breathing was getting erratic again. "She's going to move on to Plan B."

"Which is what?" Eames asked, patiently, though he didn't feel it. Instead of patience he felt a kind of thrumming beneath his skin, a thing that made his heart beat a little too fast for his liking. It was the beginning of panic.

"'Drop him into Limbo and let him rot', " Peter quoted, looking a little sick. "She said if we couldn't work with Plan A: extracting the ending, we'd resort to Plan B: Drop him into Limbo and let him rot."

"And you couldn't have said anything till now?!" Eames yelled at the frightened architect and the sick forger.

"Calm down," Cobb advised, still standing close to the forger seated next to Arthur.

"No, this is spinning out of control, Cobb! Arthur's been sedated enough that he _could_ fall into Limbo. He's in the state of mind where he could trick himself into thinking he isn't real!"

"He doesn't," the forger said, sounding worried as he considered it. "He told me that he didn't think he was real."

Eames moved to the forger's side and gave him a shove. "Get off the chair, get out of my way! I need to get down there right now!"

Cobb moved to help Eames with the fresh IV and tubing that were attached to the PASIV.

"Everything you've seen here on this level, imagine it amplified by twenty, one level down."

"Got it."

"I'll keep an eye on these two- if anything happens we should all wake in real life."

"Everyone except for Arthur," Eames said, ignoring the pinch of the needle, the rush of the Somnacin. "I have to find Arthur. He's not actualized yet- who he is is disconnected from what he does and is disconnected from how he finds meaning in his life."

Eames's eyes were slipping closed much faster than last time. He fell asleep near Arthur, frowning to himself over his choice to steal the forger's chair- he hadn't even thought of cleaning up the mess on the ground.

And that was the last thought he had before waking on the next level.


	22. Chapter 22

A.N: So, so tired. But a small chapter is better than nothing at all.

Disclaimer: I don't own Inception or Stranger Than Fiction.

"...I'm looking for something."

"I'll help you find it."

"I don't trust you."

"You're not spoiled for choice, Arthur."

Arthur was silent, the woman still lurking at his side, clinging to his arm and following him. Arthur hadn't stopped walking, despite his discomfort, his worry, his certainty that there was something wrong about this situation and this woman.

There was only so much he felt he should reveal to her. She knew too much already. And she didn't like him very much. That didn't make her the most reliable person to take on a journey.

"Who are you?" He asked, struggling to put a name to a face. She was familiar and he supposed she must know him well enough to dislike him. He knew her well enough to not like her either, but that didn't stand for much.

She smiled for him, patted his arm and kept pace with him. "I'm Yvette. I'm here to take you to the end."

Though his didn't make Arthur feel much better, some kind of answer was better than no answer at all. Her mentioning an ending was hopeful. Every journey had an ending. He may not know where it was taking him, but he'd get there eventually.

"To the end, then."

* * *

The way Eames 'woke up' on the second level made him question how he'd written any of his characters navigating their way around the multiple levels of dreams with the PASIV technology. In his story, they did it so smoothly. They didn't trip or fall or become startled as they moved from level to level.

He'd always thought that Arthur moving between the levels as very graceful, intuitive- that he'd always know the difference between reality and the dream, that he'd _feel_ the difference from a level dreamed up by someone else or one he'd been entrusted to maintain and fight through. It was one of things that worried him as he'd recently watched Arthur question his reality and not trust his little red die to tell the difference.

Eames didn't feel graceful as he stumbled forwards, suddenly tripping into awareness of himself and the level he was on. He did stumble over the grass and was forced to lay one hand against a nearby tree. Touching something solid helped ease his transition- that he was on the second level, that it was full of second level objects and buildings and other stuff Yvette must have memorized from Peter's layout.

It took him a moment to recognize his yard or his street. He took a deep breath and kept one hand on the tree, the bark rough beneath his palm. As he stood there he was able to recall how his real estate agent had lovingly patted the same tree, gesturing to the small neighborhood and the neat home for sale.

She'd been eager to tell him how the tree would be perfect for a swing or even a tree house. He'd always remember how wistful, even _hopeful_ , she'd been as she tried to sell him on the idea of buying this house and building a family. He hadn't been sure if she was projecting her own wishes onto him and this house, that _she_ wanted to start a family and have something as secure as her own home or property. The way the hemlines of her wardrobe had subtly grown shorter during the house hunting process, her friendly touches, the way she'd slipped her card into his shirt pocket, encouraging him to _call her_ after he was settled in.

Eames had been flattered by her interest, but he'd made it clear that he wasn't starting a family or a relationship. He'd been right in the middle of building Arthur's world, fleshing out his character- he'd begun the long process of putting Arthur to paper, both in words and with carefully penned line drawings which littered his notes; quick sketches of Arthur's lean figure ran along the borders of Eames's chapter outlines or fell down the margins of his drafts.

More in depth works showed Arthur in action poses as he fought or fired his Glock 17, a pensive Arthur forcing his chair to tip back on two legs while he examined file folders, or a sleeping Arthur who dreamed on couches or lounge chairs as the long IV line attached to the PASIV disappeared off the side of the page.

Eames's attention and love was focused solely on Arthur. He'd been ruined from the moment he woke up from that old dream.

With his thoughts returning unerringly to Arthur, Eames felt grounded- he must find Arthur and take him back safely. He must rescue him from the threat of Limbo and get to him before Yvette did.

He straightened up and looked around.

Eames began to narrate, dropping the first thought of using the word _unintentionally_ to describe his narration- it couldn't be unintentional if he put so much damn thought into it. He was trying to direct his own story as he waded through dreams, figuring that if Arthur had went through the majority of his story with Eames's voice in the background, what could it hurt if he tried?

"Arriving on the second level, I searched for signs of darling Arthur," Eames said as he looked around, examining the roughly forger-sized hole in the side of his house.

Eames began to walk, examining his environment and thinking through a plan. "Arthur," he said aloud, "will have gotten as far as possible from this false version of my neighborhood- he would have known he was dreaming. I need to follow him...I need a ride."

Eames was wondering how accurate the inside of his garage was going to be. Maybe the architect had driven by or used a system like Google Maps to get such a detailed street-view. Eames examined the door to his garage and noticed it was unlocked.

He had an idea.

"Needing to find a way from point A to point B, I opened the door to my garage and searched for what I was going to use to get to my lost point man."

Eames did just as he narrated and ducked inside the dark garage.


	23. Chapter 23

A.N: Let's here it for attempting to get this written on a Friday! ...or it was Friday and now it's Saturday? Same difference! If I missed any errors I will catch them later.

Disclaimer: I don't own Inception or Stranger Than Fiction.

Eames carefully clipped on his helmet, muttering to himself, "Got to get a new one. It's just a bit tight under the chin."

Why didn't he dream up something better? He'd found the helmet in the garage and grabbed for it because it was something familiar- that and he'd wanted to make sure that when he went out there in search of Arthur he thought of safety first, the successful rescue mission first, and Arthur always.

He shouldn't have bothered to make a list that had numbers if everything was important but Arthur was _most_ important.

Eames wheeled his bicycle out of the open garage, listening to the soft click of the back wheel. His bicycle, like his helmet, was old. He'd had it forever and once he'd settled in California he'd promised himself in a fit of environmental worry that he'd bike more than he road in a car, all in the name of good health and saving the environment! It didn't last as long as he'd thought- he'd rationalized that he didn't use a car, take a taxi, or ride with Uber or Lyft. That the local buses were using better fuel and if he wanted to hop on and off to do the shopping, it was fine.

Up above in the real world, his bike came out of the garage occasionally when he wanted to take a ride down the local bike paths, take a spin through the neighborhood, or ride along any of the paths next to the beach. Not eager to analyze why he'd chosen a bicycle to be the thing he road on to get to Arthur when he could have dreamed up _anything_ and have been able to use it (because he could have driven a car or a motorcycle; flown like Superman or ran like the Flash) the old bike seemed to be the right choice.

"Better than walking," Eames said to himself as he mounted up, keeping one foot on the ground as he placed his other foot onto the pedal. "Faster than running. I know how to ride a bike, it's not going to slow me down."

He kicked off, pushing himself forwards and getting his other foot on the second pedal. Rolling down the drive, Eames looked both ways as he neared his street. Rather than signal his turn as he used to, Eames took the turn without extending his right arm and pointing first, figuring that if a car hadn't hit him yet, it wasn't likely to happen as he was leaving the house and following after Arthur in a dream.

* * *

With every step Arthur took, he began to realize how shapeless his surroundings were- the land was more or less flat, the road was the only man-made feature. As he walked, Arthur began to bend the landscape to his will, watching as the surrounding area became hilly, rather than flat or featureless.

"What are you doing, Arthur?"

Arthur ignored Yvette as he changed the setting- he wanted something more...

He wanted green plants and trees; he wanted something more than the sun he couldn't see or the occasional friendly breeze. But for all the life he was giving this space, it still felt _flat_. It didn't feel _real_.

The ground trembled beneath his feet, forcing him to stop and look around. It meant something, he was sure of it. It was a niggling sensation. He almost had the word for it, almost!

"I'm not sure," Arthur answered her, still uncertain, but gaining more focus as he examined his enhanced surroundings. The trees were tall and offered shade and the grasses looked cool and soft. The sunshine gave the new features depth, made them look real to Arthur.

"It's not what I want," Arthur said, wondering at the things he created out of nothing. "This isn't what I'm looking for, this doesn't make me happy."

Yvette returned to Arthur's side and Arthur couldn't help but think there was a glint of _hunger_ in her eyes as he spoke.

"What do you think will make you happy?" Yvette asked, giving Arthur suggestions. "Being the best? Getting rich?"

Arthur blinked at her, honestly considering the options she offered.

"I'm already happy," he said, beginning to walk away from her again. "I'm not going to get there if you stop me with questions. I want more out of life, I think. I'm not unhappy. I'm just waiting."

* * *

Eames was riding at a decent clip, taking the road that was better than a golden line that led the way to Arthur.

He had to be this way- Arthur would take the road; he'd travel the length and breadth of it. If Arthur remembered what Eames said before, if he wasn't too addled by the drugs, he'd know that Eames was going to rescue him. That he had to wait for him.

Eames tried to focus on the ride, on pedaling, on the noise the wheels made as he coasted. But the quick _click-click-click_ couldn't deter his thoughts of Arthur. Thoughts of finding Arthur. What he'd _say,_ what he'd _do._

Eames felt something; a _tug_ , a _pull,_ that led him forwards. Then he noticed the ground shifting- the grass, the trees, and the rolling hills rising up all around him as he rode a bike down the road.

"What's he doing?" Eames asked himself. "Why's he changing it now?" He pedaled faster.

* * *

"What are you waiting for?" Yvette asked, speaking softly and slowly, reaching out to Arthur as if he was a skittish animal. That she had to soothe him before trying to touch him.

As Arthur watched her efforts, he felt something- not the low-level suspicion, the worry, or the steadily growing dislike of her. He felt a spike of something darker than suspicion, harder than dislike. Arthur realized all at once that the thing he was feeling was _hatred_. He _hated her_.

Arthur's eyes narrowed and through the diminishing fog his thoughts were forced to slog through, he had one more thought.

 _Gotta run_.

Arthur's posture changed, his shoulder's straightening as his fists clenched. Yvette noticed it and smiled.

"Are you starting to bounce back from the drugs? We didn't really have enough time to prepare the mix for you."

He still felt slow, he felt confused, but he wasn't going to ignore his instincts now. He wasn't going to be polite.

He turned away from her before she could lay a hand on him, he ran towards the horizon, following the road at first before jumping into the grass and ducking through the trees.

He could still hear her voice as she laughed, calling out to him as he struggled through the enhanced landscape.

"Go ahead, Arthur! Have a nice run! Just know that I'll catch up with you sooner or later!"

Arthur ignored her and continued to push his way through the trees.

* * *

Eames didn't stop riding, even as he felt the ground tremble. He didn't stop because he could have sworn that he'd heard something.

It was fragmented but Eames caught the pertinent bits. He caught _Arthur_ and _run_ and _catch_ and _later._

He doubled the pace after he heard Arthur's name.

* * *

Arthur continued to run, shoulders brushing against the trees he passed or squeezed between.

"I'm sorry," Yvette said as she appeared suddenly, leaning next to a tree that he was passing, making him jump in surprise.

He ignored her and moved on.

"You see," she said, continuing the one-sided conversation by appearing at the next tree that Arthur passed by, manifesting quickly enough to keep pace with Arthur as he ran. "This is my level- I can do what I want. No projections, for one thing. That and a little tweaking of the passage of time in relation to distance."

"I don't care," Arthur grunted as he continued to move, struggling to get away from her.

She appeared again, even closer than before. "But don't you want to know why? It's fun! You could figure it out with algebra!"

Arthur would have said something like 'Screw algebra!' but tripped over a tree root and fell onto the grass.

From his position on the ground, he got to see her feet as she appeared once more directly in front of him. He didn't turn his face away in time to avoid the dirt she'd kicked into his face. He sputtered and spat, levering himself up on one hand to try and get the dirt out of his eyes. He had to see to run.

"Thanks for changing our surroundings, Arthur," Yvette said, "Considering that you've been doing that the whole time you've been on my level, I figured I'd let you try to pull something like this. You've done half my work for me."

"What are you talking about?" Arthur spat, trying to get to his feet again even as the ground shook. To not lose his balance he was forced to grab a hold of the closest thing- Yvette.

She swayed in place as Arthur gripped her shoulders, digging in with his fingers and smiling when he saw her wince.

"You don't have an ending," Yvette said shortly. "You _never_ had an ending. At first, I thought I might be able to get _something_ out of you while you wandered around on a journey. But you've got nothing. There isn't an ending for you, happy or otherwise." Then she smirked. "Well, if I had my say in it, you wouldn't get a happy ending. This is what you get for ruining my job."

* * *

Eames didn't quite see Arthur run through the trees, but he figured it would be the next best option for Arthur. He didn't see Yvette anymore, but thought she could be chasing after him.

Little did she know the cavalry was on the way! Eames left his bike and helmet on the road and followed after them.

He ducked under low-hanging branches and cursed to himself when he almost fell or was slowed down. But he felt that _pull_ ; he knew he was close, that he was almost with Arthur!

As he ran, the ground shook with regular tremors, forcing him to take extra care. Then he spotted him- not too far, holding onto Yvette, the extractor.

* * *

Arthur glared at her, trying to keep his footing as the ground continued to shake. He heard something. There was crashing and cursing in a familiar tone- Arthur turned his head, looked away from Yvette so he could peek over his shoulder and spot the one making all the noise.

It was Eames! Forcing his way through the trees, avoiding the roots and coming closer. The moment their eyes met, Arthur felt relief. He knew that this was it- this was what he had been waiting for! He didn't have to find anything because Eames was looking for him, too!

Arthur was smiling, even though this wasn't a safe situation, even though the trouble was far from over. He felt better knowing that Eames was here now. They'd be able to handle this. Once this was over, they could start what really mattered. Arthur wasn't thinking of endings, he was thinking of beginnings.

Eames looked as relieved as Arthur felt, though the author running through the trees didn't appear to be happy to see Yvette standing so close to Arthur. He was on his way!

"I'm glad he got to see this," Yvette whispered to Arthur as she pulled a gun from thin air. "I may not be a writer but I felt that it would be more dramatic this way..."

Arthur stopped looking at Eames to stare at Yvette.

Arthur didn't even have a chance to question her before the ground stopped shaking and simply opened up beneath him. She shoved Arthur, forcing him to remove his hands from her shoulders and stepped away just in time to avoid falling in, smiling at the sight Arthur made.

The point man had managed to sink his fingers into the dirt at the mouth of the hole in the ground, straining and trying to get a decent hold to attempt to get out of it. Yvette carefully, almost surgically, aimed her gun and fired a shot near Arthur's hands, forcing him to jerk them away, loosen his grip and slip down a little further.

As he clung there he had a brief thought, a strange sensation he was forgetting something.

"You could just fall," Yvette was saying, "End it and come back."

Arthur knew that there was something wrong with that statement. He was searching back in his memory, as messed up as it had become in the course of this thing, certain that there was something wrong with the idea that death was the answer.

But it wasn't. It shouldn't be. If he were dreaming, dying would wake him...but what if he wasn't? In a world where he was the main character of a novel, where he'd met his author, Arthur wasn't sure anymore. But he still had that feeling that there was something wrong. Whenever he thought of it, that little empty slot of information had this tone of _somebody did something stupid_.

And that was Arthur's last coherent thought before he lost his grip and fell.

* * *

Eames noticed Yvette pulling her gun, even though Arthur was still busy smiling over at him. Maybe he was still drugged; maybe he didn't realize how much danger he was in! Eames just kept running.

But he wasn't close enough when the ground opened up beneath Arthur.

He was nearly there when Yvette began shooting at the ground Arthur was clinging to, nearly falling into the hole in the ground as he tried to avoid the bullets.

He heard Yvette say, "You could just fall."

And then, Arthur did. He fell into the sinkhole as Eames was close enough to fall to his knees and scramble to the edge of the widening hole, yelling Arthur's name and trying to see how deep it was.

He heard nothing but the echoes of his own voice.

Eames looked up in time to see Yvette point the gun at herself, pressing the still smoking gun to her temple and firing with a mocking smile on her face.

The dream began to collapse before she even hit the ground. Eames didn't have to wait long as a falling tree branch struck his head and neck, snapping it, not even allowing for the ironic thought of _I guess I should have kept my helmet._

* * *

Eames awoke on the first level to hear yelling from the three team members who were awake on this level, each facing off with Cobb, who had manifested his own weapon and drew it on them, focusing on Yvette.

"No," the author slurred, struggling to form words but unable to do so. Eames lurched out of his chair, ignoring the vomit on the floor from the forger standing with his hands up like Peter, and tried to make his way to Yvette, who smiled at him.

"Cobb," he said, eyes narrowing on the woman before looking towards the still sleeping Arthur...but his chest didn't rise and fall anymore. Not here. Arthur was dead. _Arthur was dead_. "She- she did it."

If Cobb noticed the state of Arthur, he didn't break down over it. He nodded shortly and proceeded to wake everyone.

He shot Yvette and then the forger, pausing to look at Eames and say as he pointed his gun, "Just close your eyes, you'll wake. _I promise you'll wake up._ "

Shaken, Eames did so. He closed his eyes and felt something indescribable- no matter how many reports he'd read about gunshot wounds and the pain; it didn't change what _dying_ felt like.


	24. Chapter 24

A.N: I'm so sorry it's been two weeks. I've just not had enough time to write for pleasure- it's been essay after essay, project after project, and exam after exam! We're almost at the end and I appreciate how patient you've all been!

Disclaimer: I don't own Inception or Stranger Than Fiction. I'm sure that there are lots of silly errors because I wanted to post before midnight- I will get to them later.

Eames awoke with the sensation of Cobb's bullet shattering his sternum, of hot lead becoming lodged in his heart. The author pressed one hand against his chest, hunching forwards with the phantom pain of it, trying to focus on something related to reality, to waking up in the real world.

He opened his eyes and found Arthur beside him and that was enough reality for him.

Arthur, still dreaming but free of the handcuffs, slumped in his chair and did nothing but breathe steadily. In and out, in and out, Eames matched the point man breath for breath, struggling with what a colossal mess he'd made of things.

He hadn't saved Arthur at all.

As Eames became more aware of his surroundings, he heard the commotion made by the extraction team. He took his eyes off of Arthur and looked at the three dream criminals who discovered that their limbs had been zip tied to their chairs as they slept. When his eyes locked with Yvette's, the female extractor's struggles intensified.

The architect was watching Eames's face and he softly swore, babbling, "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, I didn't want any of this to happen!"

The forger chimed in, nodding and testing his bonds, trying to break them and failing. "I didn't know! I was hired at the last minute, Mr. Eames!"

Eames's eyes narrowed and he had one thought and one alone. He was already trying to pluck the IV from his wrist when Cobb woke up next to him, coming back to reality without flailing or choking or faltering. Cobb got to his feet and smoothly detached himself from the PASIV if only to put himself in Eames's way, pressing the author back down in his seat, stopping him from removing the needle.

"Take a deep breath, Eames," Cobb advised, speaking in a soft, low voice. One that meant to ease him back from whatever ledge he was about to jump from as Eames began to think of retribution and Arthur, about what _Arthur_ would do in such a situation- then, remembering what Arthur had done in such a situation. Eames swallowed back his anger, his futile, futile sense of defeat. It made him recall the scene where Arthur tried to wake Cobb at the bottom of the river, when everyone but the extractor and Saito managed to ride the kick back up the levels.

He even remembered the text from that moment, thinking it to himself as he did as Cobb asked. Eames took a breath even though he felt like he was drowning.

 _Try as he might, Arthur couldn't wake him. Arthur couldn't wake a dead man. All his effort, all his sacrifice was for nothing now if Cobb went to Limbo. Finding few options open to him, Arthur struggled with another course of action, another plan on how to save Cobb, how to fix this. He reached for the seat belt holding the dead man in place, holding his own breath and hoping that he'd be able to swim to shore with Cobb, to take the burden once again like he'd done since Mal passed away. Arthur managed to get the belts undone, reaching for Cobb's coat and getting ready to tow him away._

 _But he felt a tapping on his shoulder- looking to see her, his architect shaking her head and gesturing that they had to leave._

 _Arthur tugged on Cobb's coat, sinking his fingers into the material and pulling. Arthur, frustrated and now alone like he'd once thought he'd be, yelled with no sound, wasting his oxygen._

"Hurting them will change nothing, Eames."

"What if I want to?" Eames forced out. "What if I want to? Isn't that what Arthur would do? He'd beat them or kill them or ruin their reputations in dreamshare!"

"But you aren't Arthur," Cobb said. "You're his author."

"What if I want to do them harm because Arthur didn't deserve _any of this?"_

And Yvette actually stopped her struggling and chuckled. "Oh, sweetie. Arthur deserved plenty!"

Cobb put two hands on Eames's chest and shoved him when Eames tried to get out of his chair! "Don't rise to the bait, Eames. We still have to take care of Arthur."

Yvette openly laughed now, throwing her head back like what Cobb said was the first good joke she'd heard in a week. " _Take care of Arthur?_ What do you think is going to happen? Are you going to write him out of this? Are you going to go down there and save him in _Limbo?_ "

As Yvette spoke Ariadne and the chemist moved to Arthur's side and began to examine him- Ariadne took the point man's pulse while counting to herself, timing it with her wristwatch while the chemist checked Arthur's IV line and the time on the PASIV.

"What is your problem?" Eames said. "What did he do to you? Was it just the fact that he screwed up the deal you had on the side? Is _that_ why he supposedly deserves it?"

"No," Yvette hissed, attempting to pull of being judgmental with her arms zip tied to her chair- without her arms crossed over her chest, the most the extractor could do was a haughty life of her chin.

Ariadne, finished with Arthur's pulse, shook her head and added, "That's not what I heard from Becky."

The chemist, who was obviously named Becky, nodded. "Yeah, Yvette's really upset about that other job, that other payout. She doesn't stop complaining about it."

"Shut up!" Yvette said, glaring daggers at Becky. "I didn't call you in on this job to gossip with a PA! That's not what I'm paying you for!"

Becky shook her head and sighed to Ariadne, "See? She's like this all the time- 'I pay you for this', "she said, imitating Yvette's voice. "'Arthur ruined everything' and 'Why can't I be the best extractor?' are also reoccurring favorites on Yvette's whiny playlist."

Peter turned in Yvette's direction, craning his neck a little, saying "You really do sound like that."

The forger nodded in agreement. "Yes. I barely know you and I can completely agree. Besides, you _aren't_ paying us. If you hadn't screwed over your point man there wouldn't have been an issue about the payment from the original job- but no, you just had to get greedy. Dangling the idea of the big payout from that side deal will only draw us in so far, you know? That and I doubt you found anything about the ending."

If Yvette hadn't already been tied down, Eames was fairly certain that she would have thrown herself at her disgruntled team and started the fight that Cobb had tried to deter Eames from engaging in.

Ariadne approached Eames and Cobb, nodding in Becky's direction as she returned Cobb's gun. "We had a chance to chat as we waited around. She's not happy with her work environment and was willing to share important information with me." Then Ariadne kind of shrugged. "We also talked about her trip to Bermuda."

Eames blinked at his PA, wondering if this line of conversation was meant to cool him down, to calm him.

"Ariadne," Eames began, "I think I messed this up. I failed."

Ariadne smiled for him, apparently going for her brand of reassurance. "Not likely," she said. "You don't mess up. You look at things from a different angle; you go at them from left field. You're ideas a quirky and fun and you always finish. You just need to finish this."

"There's no ending now, Ariadne. Look at him," Eames said; helplessly gesturing to Arthur, still in his chair, nearby but so very far if he'd dropped all the way down to Limbo. "He- he _saw me_. She killed him- she shoved him into a damned pit that opened up underneath him! She wanted him to rot! All I wanted was for him to be happy. To be fulfilled. To have whatever he wanted in his life. But now he's stuck down there..."

Cobb looked at the timer on the PASIV, doing the math, nodding to himself. "Two levels. A dream within a dream- increased sedation, for Arthur, at least, increased the likelihood that he'd fall into unconstructed dreamspace of Limbo. Time dilation is another factor to consider..."

"You're saying that we could still save him?" Ariadne asked, businesslike and to the point.

Cobb nodded. "When I fell into Limbo with my wife, we we're using a special compound- we just kept trying to go deeper and deeper. Until finally we washed up on the shores of our subconscious."

Eames raised his eyebrows and reached for Cobb's arm, demanding, "Say that one more time?"

And Cobb did.

"A shore?" Eames repeated, the wheels turning, the ideas coming to him. That maybe hope wasn't lost after all- the extraction team could wait. "Like on a beach? An island?"

Cobb nodded, staring at Eames in confusion. "I get this idea that your next plan is going to be a little reckless _and_ unorthodox."

Eames continued to think of it, asking for the amount of time left on the clock. "The dream ended early," the chemist said. "You've got twenty minutes left on the clock. It's possible that by dropping into Limbo, Arthur will have spent enough time down there and reduced the effects of the compound and sedation keeping him from waking if he tries to shoot himself out of the dream. If it worked, he'll wake the same time you do when the timer reaches zero."

Eames nodded and settled back into his seat. "Okay. Alright. I think- I think I can do it. I'll get him back. I'll bring him home."

"Yeah right," Yvette muttered loud enough for Eames to hear. "Arthur doesn't deserve to come home."

Before Eames could say anything in response, the extraction team, as one, said, "Just let it go, Yvette!"

"Eames," Cobb said, taking a step away and watching as Eames settled in, looking at Becky, who stood by the PASIV and waited to press the button. "What will you do? It sounded like you know where he'll be."

"We played a game once," Eames said, closing his eyes. "He said that the people who hated him, the people in dreamshare who wanted him to pay for something or learn a lesson, would abandon him somewhere he couldn't escape from."

Ariadne moved to Eames's other side, pressing her hand against his shoulder. "You'll find him. You'll both wake up. It will work out and you'll be together."

Becky chose that moment to press the button on the PASIV, the Somnacin rushing through Eames's veins again. "I hope so."

Then, after closing his eyes and taking a few deep breaths, Eames was asleep.


	25. Chapter 25

A.N: And now we're in Arthur's version of Limbo. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own Inception or Stranger Than Fiction. If I find any more errors I'll eventually fix them.

Arthur had lived on his island for longer than he cared to admit. He didn't keep track of the number of days by carving dashes on a large rock or scoring lines in the bark of a palm tree- he didn't need to know the exact numbers. It had been years. He had been on his island for _years_.

Having been thrown into the sea from a great height, falling out of the sky and crashing into the choppy waves of the ocean during a storm, Arthur wasn't sure _who_ had abandoned him there so long ago.

He didn't bother to think of _why_. It could have been any reason under the sun.

It was clear that whomever had abandoned him had wanted him to die- his pockets had been filled with rocks before he was thrown from what Arthur was certain was a plane, if the height from which he'd fallen was any indication. Then there was the whistling of the wind in his ears as he plummeted down into the dark waters, the sudden and bitter cold as he sank deep.

He wasn't sure how he managed it- his hands had been tied with rough rope, he'd barely managed to undo the knots and fish the rocks from his pockets, breaking the surface to take gasping breaths tinged with salt, just treading water.

Once he'd made it to the island his only concern had been survival.

And he'd kept on surviving.

After his first night on the island had been spent huddling under generously leafy trees, the first blessedly sunny morning had been spent collecting objects that had drifted into the shallows, maybe dropped from the plane after him or the remains of some other wreck on the water.

He'd gotten a bottle of water, a ball of wax coated twine, and a Swiss Army Knife. He didn't believe his luck but wished he'd had access to a hatchet so he'd be able to harvest more wood to build something sturdier than a lean-to shelter.

Once some of the wood and twigs he'd collected had dried in the sun, he'd built a fire.

He'd discovered the sources of water on the island, finding a small stream that he'd have to boil the water from to avoid parasites and infection. The food was limited- there were coconuts, seaweed growing close to shore, and fish that darted through the water in the shallows.

It wasn't the Ritz, it wasn't a vacation. But on the first day Arthur was sure that even though he might not be found, he'd at least manage to stay alive while trapped.

* * *

After being stuck there for years, Arthur developed a routine.

He'd wake before the sun rose, emerging the from the shelter he'd made from fallen logs and branches, rising from the bed of soft leaves and plants he'd collect as needed every week or so. His clothing had been become tattered during his stay on the island- the shirt had been cut into strips for bandages, his slacks had been torn when he was spearfishing, forcing him to make the slacks into shorts. His shoes had been ruined in the water.

His years on the island had turned his skin a nice healthy tan. His near constant exercise and physical labor kept him strong and fit, though his joints ached, showing his age. His diet, heavy on the fish he caught or the coconuts he'd harvested, was sometimes supplemented by the godsends of floating foodstuffs from a shipwreck.

Sometimes these gifts would float in on the morning tide.

Arthur would watch for the sunrise and wait to see if anything had washed up on the shore.

Today he noticed something in the shallows...

Something odd.

Arthur stood and brushed the sand from his legs, stretching and going to investigate.

What he found when he got there was honestly perplexing. It- it was a person!

He'd never found a dead body on his beach before!

It was probably a strange assumption to make, but Arthur hadn't seen any living soul for years. He'd grown older on his island, not seeing anyone living or dead in all the time he'd been stuck there. So sue him for wanting something out of the ordinary to happen.

Curious, Arthur knelt beside the body and examined it. He'd gotten as far as noticing that the person was male and had chosen a godawful shirt to wear before he'd met his end, noticing that the shirt was something _paisley,_ when the dead man grasped Arthur's ankle and hung on like he was frightened that the ocean was going to rip him off the shore!

Arthur was stunned and moved to defend himself, possibly by braining the not-so-dead man with a nearby rock, when the man coughed up seawater and looked up at him. His face was speckled with sand and he blinked at Arthur before saying, "I knew it, I knew I was right!"

And then the man's grip on Arthur's ankle loosened and he was unconscious again.


	26. Chapter 26

A.N: So I'm back attempting to churn out another chapter during finals week. Things have been hectic and stressful and I decided last week that I would give myself a little break, considering that I hadn't received a comment in nearly two months. It's hard to write without motivation and I would get my hopes up when I'd see a kudos or notice that anyone wandered across the fic doing the equivalent of window shopping! Then I sat here today and asked myself why it bothered me so much and if I like writing for the sake of writing, shouldn't I be happy just doing that? So here it is- my update and current reason for not typing an essay. I would rather be on an island (adding 'with Arthur and Eames' is a definite stretch so I'll settle for the island).

Disclaimer: I don't own Inception or Stranger Than Fiction. This probably has errors and I won't get to fix them tonight so bear with me.

"Why-?" Eames struggled from his spot on the sand, noticing that his hands had been tied behind his back with something that felt like rope. "Why am I tied up?"

Arthur was seated in front of him, quietly sharpening the blade of his Swiss Army knife. He shrugged at Eames's question, keeping his attention on the blade so he didn't accidentally cut his fingers or screw up the bevel edge as he worked on one side, getting it nice and sharp.

"I could have just buried you up to your neck in sand and waited for the tide to come in," Arthur muttered, looking over at his prisoner before turning the blade and working on the other side, wanting it to be just as keen. "But it would have taken too long to dig the hole."

Eames, trying hard not to struggle, trying to get his thoughts in order, took in this man, this _older_ Arthur. From the looks of it, the point man didn't appear to recognize him. He was weathered by the sun and surf, gaining the years most robbed him of at a first glance. Arthur finally looked his age with extra lines etched across his roughly shaven cheeks, a dash or two of gray speckling his dark, gently curling hair.

 _I always had a feeling that you'd age gracefully,_ Eames couldn't help but think to himself.

Because Arthur was every bit as lean, strong, and dangerous as he was in the world up above. Limbo may have aged him but he was still the man who had walked out of Eames's dreams and on to paper. He just had to remind him, he had to make Arthur remember!

But Arthur had stopped sharpening his knife and was now giving Eames a look- not quite recognition, but maybe a spark.

"How did you get here," Arthur asked. "Were you lost at sea? Did someone strand you here to die?"

Thinking back to the last time he was in this type of situation, Eames thought that maybe (even though he wasn't writing this story, he wasn't writing this experience) that certain themes were being repeated. This would be their second unlikely meeting, the second time Arthur had disabled Eames...

Eames considered his next words, wondered if he should lie but thought that the truth would serve him better. He licked his lips and tasted salt, feeling thirsty.

"I'm an author, a writer," Eames said after clearing his throat, waiting to see if Arthur would remember what they'd spoken of before. "I've been having trouble with my latest novel and decided that this would be the perfect setting to get the creative juices flowing."

Arthur raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "So you're crazy."

Eames shrugged as much as he was capable. "I prefer _eccentric_. I'm pretty eccentric. Why else would I find my way to a deserted island to write a book?"

A look passed over Arthur's face. It was part fear and suspicion. He looked at Eames like he wasn't sure he was real, like he was worried that he wanted him to be truly there.

"You're the first living thing to wash up on my beach. Its been so long, I was starting to get lonely. It's a big island."

Eames bit back the first thing he wanted to say. He held back on saying things like, _You knew that I was coming for you, some part of you remembers what I said!_

"Big enough for two, you think?"

Arthur nodded. "And if you try to kill me in my sleep, I'll have no problem feeding you to the sharks."

Eames would have shaken on it but his hands were still bound behind his back. He moved his shoulders in a half-shrug, saying, "I doubt I could do you much harm with my hands tied. Untie me so we can talk reasonably over tea."

Then Arthur smiled. Eames wasn't even sure if Arthur noticed that he was ever-so-slightly dimpling. "Tea?" The point man snorted. "I wish I went to the market earlier, then. I'm all out, Mr-" Arthur stopped, stuck on the name he began to say, his brow furrowing as he reached for a word he wasn't as clear on.

Eames's face softened as he caught the look of frustration, of honest worry, as Arthur failed to say a name he couldn't possibly have known right now...but the fact that he tried was telling. Arthur may not remember him now, but he would later. It gave Eames hope that this gambit wouldn't fail, that he'd get Arthur back to reality in one piece.

They would just have to meet again.

"So sorry!" Eames began, smiling his most charming of smiles. "I didn't even introduce myself! My name is Cadby Eames."

"I'm Arthur," the point man said, grasping his knife and moving to Eames's side to cut the ropes binding his hands. "I'm sure you've got an interesting story to go with a name like that."

The knife, sharpened carefully, made quick work of the rope, allowing Eames to relax his arms and stretch a little.

"I'm full of stories, Arthur. Find us something to drink and we'll get started."


	27. Chapter 27

AN: I tried writing this two or three times and I didn't like it. Then my day started to suck and I decided I'd write to try and feel better.

Disclaimer: I don't own Inception or Stranger Than Fiction and I had to watch several YouTube videos to figure out how to cut green coconuts. There are errors lurking around and I'll fix them later.

Leading Eames towards the shade of the coconut palms that dominated the island, Arthur instructed him to take a seat and relax while he made their drinks.

From his spot beneath the palms, Eames could see Arthur's progress towards a low v-shaped wall of rocks on the shore pointing out towards the sea. He stooped and pulled a roughly woven basket from the shallows, water dripping from the basket and hitting the sand as Arthur turned back with the burden and returned to Eames, sitting down across from him in the shade.

"I may not have tea," the point man said taking his knife from his pocket and snapping it open to reveal the freshly sharpened blade. "I've got the next best thing." Arthur reached into the basket with his other hand for two green coconuts and a small unopened bottle of rum that he placed on top of a mat he'd made from palm fronds. "Coconut water is very refreshing with or without rum."

As he spoke, Arthur began to slice the top of one of the coconuts, the blade of his knife sinking into the skin at an angle, cutting away pieces of green husk with steady pressure and a smooth stroke of the blade. Turning the coconut and cutting the husk away, revealing the internal shell covered in thin white coir, Arthur began to work on slicing away the pointed end he'd created. It took several minutes with a pocket knife but Arthur soon had the point removed, cutting away the material surrounding the circular opening and presenting the finished product to Eames with a smile.

Eames took it, surprised at the weight of the coconut, hearing the sloshing the water made as it was passed it between them. He briefly looked at the wide mouth, the scent of the water rising from the opening. He looked up and noticed how Arthur had reached for the second coconut and began to give it the same treatment as the first.

Eames took a cautious sip from the coconut, then a second, larger sip. It was slightly sweet and cooler than he'd expected it to be. Before he could stop himself, he made this pleasantly surprised noise as he enjoyed the flavor.

Arthur must have heard the noise Eames made when he tried it, because he'd ducked his head to hide his widening smile and remained focused on his knife work, doing the same process of skinning and cutting away the green husk to reveal the place he'd open the coconut to take the water from, saying, "Yes, I don't have little paper umbrellas, straws, or ice to go with it. It's not as sweet as coconut milk, but if you like it, you can try putting a dash of rum in it for flavor. Call it a deserted island cocktail."

The author laughed, watching as Arthur cut his coconut open and then, removing it from the woven mat and wedging it into the sand, the point man opened up the bottle of rum. When Arthur tilted the neck of the bottle in Eames's direction, raising a questioning eyebrow, Eames nodded and allowed Arthur to pour a slight amount into his drink.

Arthur did the same for his own, planted the open bottle in the sand, picked up his drink and said, "So, we have drinks now. I hope you weren't lying when you mentioned stories?"

Eames took another sip of his drink, a shallow little swallow of the the coconut water and rum. He'd been considering how to start, how he could begin to work on Arthur, to get him to remember. This might not work, but he was running out of options this far down.

"I've written four best sellers and made a name for myself because I write happy endings like its a specialty," Eames said, watching Arthur's face and trying to see a spark of recognition. All he saw was the other man's patience as he waited for Eames to continue talking. "But I really have just one story I'd like to tell you- it's yours. I'm going to tell you the story of Arthur."


	28. Chapter 28

A.N: Almost done. I'll fix the errors later.

Eames started as the sun continued to rise over the island.

"Your name is Arthur. This island isn't where you belong, but it's where you landed. It's where you've remained for several years- there isn't a better place to start the story. You've done nothing but survive since you found this island."

Arthur, relaxing as he listened to the story, shrugged and said, "I haven't had time to build my tropical resort. Fighting to survive took precedence over building the luxury spa or tennis court featured in my blueprints."

"No, don't you see?" Eames asked, not willing to banter. "You were abandoned here but you've done nothing to escape this situation. I know you, darling! I've written you, but I've also seen you in action- you don't accept defeat, you always come back with a plan, you always defy expectations!"

Eames wasn't willing to be discouraged. "Before you were abandoned here an extraction team had attempted to steal something from your mind. They were after something that I hadn't finished writing yet and I've only just come to understand why you're here."

"Riveting story, Mr. Eames. Twists and turns and intrigue!" Arthur wasn't hiding his sarcasm- it was a wonder that Arthur could speak so clearly when his words were so thick with it! "I've got no idea what you're talking about. I don't know what extraction is supposed to be. I was only thrown here to die, so I made the best of a really messed up situation. That's it. There's no story to tell, even if you insist on saying you've written mine."

"Arthur, you were only two levels down in your own mind before you fell down to Limbo. Yvette wanted you to waste away down here and go crazy. She wanted you to rot."

Arthur grit his teeth and glared, ignoring his coconut water and rum. "I don't know what you're talking about. Just give me a straight answer!"

Eames took a breath and said it.

"I doubt you recall the events that brought you here. You don't remember me, you don't remember us, you don't remember Yvette or Peter and their little 's not even the tiniest flicker of recognition when I say their names, but I suppose you could live with that. They aren't important. They mean nothing to you or the way you live your life. But this isn't living, darling."

Arthur was about to say something in response, but couldn't form the words. After another second or two, Arthur managed to say, " _Darling?_ " He said it like he was trying it out, maybe wondering exactly how it could apply to him. The fact that Arthur still didn't understand or recall how it applied to him worried Eames, but he was going to keep moving.

"You've never tried to leave the island. Up above, you'd been fighting and struggling with your reality, with whether or not you were real. Why wouldn't you try and hide away in an environment you had complete control over? A limitless, unconstructed dreamspace finally gave you what you were lacking in the waking world."

As if he couldn't handle this turn in conversation, Arthur suddenly stood, ignoring the sand that clung to his legs in favor of staring down at Eames.

"I don't believe you. I was doing fine before. You keep saying I've never tried to leave, but you have no idea what I've attempted since I've been here. I was fine, I was just taking a break. Am I not allowed to do that?"

Eames wasn't going to tell the man that he'd said something like that, nearly verbatim, when they first met. Eames got to his feet and answered.

"I'm here to remind you of who you used to be. I'm here to remind you of dreamshare, of Cobb and his children, of the inception of Robert Fischer." Eames forced himself not to waver or hesitate. "I'm here to remind you of me, Arthur. I'm a part of your story, too."

"But why are you here, Eames?"

"I wrote you into an adventure," Eames said. "You hated it. You fought against it. And then we found each other. I came here to help you, darling."

"I-," Arthur faltered, turning away from Eames to look to the waves crashing on the beach. "When I first got here I waited till the storms had passed and built a small raft- nothing fancy, just enough to help me float along once I was too tired to swim or tread water." Eames moved to Arthur's side, sharing his view.

"How far did you get?"

Arthur laughed. It was a dry, mirthless chuckle, killed in the cradle. "I don't know. I thought I paddled for hours but I never touched the horizon. I ended up back on my beach. Back at square one."

Arthur chanced a look at Eames, appearing as close to shy as the man had ever been in reality. It was a sad look on this older version of Arthur. "Let's say I believe you. That everything you've said is true, including the ridiculous parts that make no sense. If I can't leave this place, what makes you think that you'll do any better? Are you going to write us out of it?"

Eames hmmed. "Limbo is bending to your wishes, your demands. Even as you tried to leave it, the island pulled you back in. In the real world you've become isolated, separated from Cobb, whom you'd been helping for so long. You don't lack drive or purpose, but like on this island, you've been focused on survival and success. I want you to know that you could do whatever you want, darling. Whatever makes you happy."

 _Please come back with me. Please say that coming back with me will make you happy; that_ I _make you happy!_

Standing so close to the point man, Eames could catch Arthur in his peripheral vision. Lean and strong, tanned and healthy, Arthur stood on Eames's right side and continued to look towards the sea. There was a pensive expression on his face; the longer Eames looked at Arthur, the more the author began to notice the weight of the years spent in Limbo lifting away from Arthur. It was a slow but sure process as Arthur considered his answer.

Eames stopped bothering with looking out of the corner of his eye, turning to look at Arthur at the same time the point man turned his head. And there he was; years younger with his dark, gently curling hair free from gray, Arthur smiled for Eames- flashing dimples unhampered by the extra lines that had added years to his face.

"Whatever makes me happy?" The point man repeated, still smiling for Eames. "I want to go home now."

Eames was going to nod, thankful that they didn't need to have a talk about taking a leap of faith. But even with his experience writing about dreamshare and the PASIV, about Limbo and lucid dreaming, the process still took him by surprise. Even his most recent times spent waking from a PASIV-assisted dream didn't really compare. It was frightening to be this deep, to be trapped in Limbo, to worry over Arthur believing him.

But Arthur reached for Eames's hand and looked towards the ocean again, remaining a reassuring presence at Eames's side. Eames squeezed Arthur's hand tightly, struck by the feeling of this.

The sky was too bright and the waves too loud and they were waking. Waking and waking and waking.


	29. Chapter 29

A.N: So a couple of days ago I flipped a coin to see if I'd do a separate chapter for an epilogue, then I accidentally dropped a jar of mayonnaise on my foot and decided I didn't care if I ended on 30 chapters or 29. And then I finished this chapter and said to myself, 'Nah, do an epilogue anyway. This is a nice ending, but there's one more thing to add.' I apologize for errors that have slipped my notice because its so late (I'm sure they're stupid and I'll kick myself for them when I have time to reread again. But that's fine).

Happy Fourth of July!

The first thing that Arthur became aware of when he woke was the silence. He spared a half second to wonder if he'd gone deaf. It hadn't happened before but he wasn't sure who had been called in as the chemist; the side effects of one chemist's mix when compared to another could be very different.

He had a headache, could tell that he'd been roughed up and most likely sucker punched to keep quiet or keep still after being captured. His back hurt from where the barbs from the taser gun dug into his skin. Yeah, that still hurt like hell. He doubted his seat had helped.

Still in the chair, Arthur arched his back ever so slightly, hearing the pops his spine made as the pressure was relieved. He opened his eyes and looked over at Yvette, Peter, and that forger he'd never bothered to ask the name of, who were zip tied to their lounge chairs, looking at him in either fear or hate. Fear was winning out.

"You asses couldn't have given me a pillow for my back?"

The forger flinched at Arthur's tone, watching his every move as the point man calmly removed the needle from his arm, dropping the tubing to the floor. Arthur stood, managing to look frightening even if he'd been knocked around, electrocuted, and dropped down to Limbo. And because Arthur was the best he could still pull off being frightening in sweats.

"We didn't think of that, I'm sorry!"

"What are you doing apologizing to him?" Yvette hissed at the forger. "We don't have to apologize for anything!"

"Yes," Eames growled, moving to stand at Arthur's side after Cobb detached the needle from the author's arm and stepped out of the way. "You do. _All of you_." Eames glanced over at Becky, the chemist, who still huddled close with Ariadne. "But maybe not you. I'll confer with Arthur and my PA and may change my mind after."

Becky nodded shortly and didn't say anything else.

Yvette was still glaring at them, all of them. She finally settled on Arthur and spat, "So what if you've crawled back up from Limbo, Arthur? It doesn't-"

Arthur cut her off, clenching his fists and saying, "I don't care." Arthur didn't leave her a second to take a breath and rant at him, blaming him for things he didn't do or things she believed he'd taken from her. "I'm not wasting my time with you. You tried and you failed. We can move on and never have to see each other again. Dreamshare is a big business, and if I wanted to I could arrange it so you're blacklisted. No point man or extractor would even think of working with you again just because I said so!" But Arthur shook his head. "You're lucky I'm not gonna do that. From here on out, whatever happens to you is your own fault. If a job fails, it's on you."

Before Yvette could say anything in response, Peter was hushing her, leaning as far forwards as he could in the lounge chair he was bound to, nodding to Arthur.

"Yes, we promise!"

"You don't speak for me," Yvette said, gritting her teeth, fighting against some strong emotion as she looked from Peter to Arthur. "You don't know how hard it is- you don't! Not all of us can do an inception! Not all of us can have our names and careers made like that! And not all of us can have some guy _write it so we_ _succeed!_ "

Arthur didn't even share a look with Eames as he heard those words. There was a moment where Arthur waited for that knee-jerk reaction to occur; for that aching moment where he questioned his reality, his existence, and his worth. But it didn't come.

Strengthened by that lack of fear or worry, Arthur gave Yvette more than she deserved. He showed her pity.

"There's your mistake, Yvette. It's easy for you to say that the only reason I've succeeded is due to my being a character in a story. It's easy for you to look at my life and my work and think that it took nothing but Eames's writing to make it happen. What you don't understand is that I had my own motivations aside from playing a part I didn't know I'd been given. I've always wanted to be the best at what I've done, but I've also wanted to help Cobb get back to his children. It was more important to see Cobb go back to his children than to become the best point man in dreamshare." Arthur shook his head, noticing the expression on Yvette's face hadn't changed. He wasn't reaching her.

"But when you get down to it, it doesn't matter if you believe a word I say. I get to do what I want now. I get to do whatever makes me happy."

 _Now_ Arthur looked at Eames, not surprised that Eames had been listening to every word.

"Ever hear that the truth is stranger than fiction?"

Eames nodded quickly. "Mark Twain is credited with that, I think."

"It's because fiction is obliged to stick to possibility while the truth doesn't. Sure, you wrote about a reality that has PASIV technology and industrial espionage- all things that are possible within this reality have happened. People lived, died, were extracted from or incepted, or fell into Limbo. But here we are at the end of the story. I know what will make me happy. I know that you can give it to me, too."

The others were silent; the extraction team didn't whimper, beg, or curse, Cobb waited to see what would happen next, Ariadne found herself biting her fist to keep from saying a word and interrupting the moment.

Eames slipped one hand into his pocket and pulled out a flash drive.

He showed it to Arthur, swallowing down whatever silly thing he was going to say, reaching for Arthur's hand and squeezing tight, while holding the flash drive in his free hand. Eames looked at Arthur and said, "Hold on nice and tight, darling. I don't know what's going to happen next."

Then the author dropped the sacred drive, the one that had the entire, as yet unfinished, draft saved to it. It hit the hard floor, bouncing once but not traveling farther than an inch or two. Yvette's eyes bugged out when she saw what Eames was going to do.

She yelled but it didn't stop Eames from smashing the drive beneath his shoe, putting it out like a cigarette, ensuring that it wouldn't survive the damage. That any and all information saved to it would be destroyed. Lost forever.

Knuckles gone white from how tightly they were holding onto each other, Arthur was the first to look down at the mess at their feet. When he saw the broken flash drive, he let go of the breath he hadn't been sure he was holding, laughing a little as he did. He looked up at Eames, noticing a similar look of amazement on his face.

"You didn't have to break it," Arthur softly said, not letting go of Eames's hand.

Eames shook his head. "No. I want you to be free. Finishing the story is one thing. Packaging it up and letting it get published is another. I want you to have your life, your successes, your dreams, and your happy ending. I can't take those things from you, darling. You can thank Cobb for reminding me."

How Arthur had managed to get so close to Eames without thinking about it amazed the point man; there he was, practically wrapped around the man, arms already reaching around the author's neck, tugging him in closer. With greatly diminished space between them, Arthur turned his head and looked over at a slightly flustered looking Cobb. The former extractor appeared to be looking anywhere but at Arthur, looking over the point man's head possibly studying the shade of paint on the wall of the warehouse.

"Is that true, Dom?"

"If I say yes are you going to do something I'd regret?"

Ariadne, who had stopped biting her fist, shot Cobb a glare that could have peeled the paint the extractor was so keen on examining.

"Listen, Cobb- you might not get this because you're not the PA who has been working her butt off trying to get this story finished for publication, which is now not going to happen at all, so _goodbye paycheck,_ but I'm in it for the ending! So just say yes so they can get on with it!"

So Cobb finally said yes and Ariadne waited expectantly. Arthur returned his attention to Eames, who was waiting but still smiling.

"Darling," the author began to say. "I hope you don't think I'm being forward, but once we get back to your place, I _do_ have a pass to give you. It's very official looking. It can be laminated so you could carry it in your wallet."

"Eames?"

"Or we can frame it!"

"Eames!"

Completely aware of how he was trying Arthur's patience, Eames's smile widened a fraction. "Yes?"

Arthur was smiling, fond and a little amused.

"Shut up," the point man said softly before leaning in and kissing his author, letting his happy ending enfold him, the possibilities of what his life could be stretching out and out. He could do anything, whatever he wanted was in reach. Arthur wouldn't check his totem right now- the weight of Eames pressing against him; the answering touch of lips, tongue, and grasping fingers were enough of a totem for Arthur now.


	30. Chapter 30

A.N: And it is done! For now at least! Thank you for all the kind reviews and kudos.

If I missed an error (and I'm sure I did) I'll fix it later.

"Come on, just one more time?"

"That's what you said twenty minutes ago, Eames. I'm past being tired. I just want to lay here and become one with the mattress."

"But I'm not even finished!"

Arthur sighed and held the pose Eames had carefully nudged, tweaked, and adjusted the point man into as he lay in bed. Earlier, Eames had been busy talking about light and texture and had arranged Arthur just so for another attempt at an interesting composition to replace the first sketch he'd done of Arthur after they'd met in the flesh.

And after seeing and helping Eames clean up the wreck of his house, watching Eames's face fall when he found the ruined sketch, Arthur had suggested this. It was Eames who had asked for something a little more _intimate_. Not a recreation of his point man smiling as he walked through the front door of Eames's home, but something else that displayed Arthur's finer traits.

Since there were so many, Eames had made a persuasive argument for less clothing and used an artfully draped bed sheet to draw the eye down the length of Arthur's body, offering a teasing flash of what the sheet might have hidden if Arthur hadn't shifted the sheet with a knowing smirk. His spot somewhere near the foot of Arthur's bed gave the best vantage point, the lamp on the bedside table shed enough light to cast shadows and to highlight the planes of Arthur's chest as he lay like an indolent god, several pillows cushioning his head and shoulders. All that was missing was a nymph or two to offer the point man grapes.

But contrary to popular belief laying still and not moving a muscle wasn't relaxing- Arthur really did want to stretch and allow the soft mattress to swallow him. Eames placed his drawing board on the bed and turned it so Arthur would be able to see his progress.

"I think I have enough for now, darling. This one's coming along nicely."

Free to stretch and move, Arthur leaned forwards and looked at the sketch. It was something hurried and sharp, his form made from gestured lines of charcoal. There weren't any details just yet- Eames had been focusing on the shape of Arthur's body, of the shadows he cast, laying the groundwork to make this drawing of Arthur more realistic and present on the bed.

"Give me a few weeks and you'll be immortalized on paper."

Arthur could have made a comment about his close call as a character in one of Eames's novels, that he'd been fairly close to becoming immortalized in print. Destroying his flash drive, deleting any remaining files on his laptop and shredding what was left of his handwritten outlines, Eames had taken the final step and told the publishing company that he wouldn't be turning in a finished product- that he would invoke the termination clause of his contract, pay a fee, and they would part without further complaints.

It wasn't the easiest thing to do. Arthur knew that. Everything that had led up to their meeting had also led to Eames letting go of a successful career. Though he hadn't said anything to Arthur about it, Eames would probably suffer some form of backlash for not finishing the novel or getting out of his contract.

Arthur had been going over an idea, wondering just when he should bring it up. Now seemed to be as good a time as any.

"I've been thinking about taking a job," Arthur said. He waited for Eames to look up at him, noticing how the author's grip tightened on the edges of his drawing board as he pulled it away from the bed moved to rest it against a dresser.

Eames looked up, curious. "Really? It's been a few weeks...I thought you might want a longer break? We could take a vacation!"

Arthur shook his head. "I'm the best point man in dreamshare, Eames. I thought I'd take a vacation, too, but this seems like a great opportunity. And I wanted to take you with me."

"What?" Eames asked, eyes widening.

"Cobb mentioned what happened on the first level, Eames. You can forge. You're a _forger_. Possibly the best in the business."

"Are you saying you want us to work together? That we should become dream criminals?"

Arthur shrugged. "Well, I'm already a dream criminal. I've also trained more people in dreamshare than you'd think possible. I've got the time, and to be honest, once I was finished helping Cobb, I thought I'd take on a new partner and continue working."

"You could have anyone for a partner, Arthur," Eames began to say, clearly worrying over such a serious request.

"And I want you to be that partner, if you'll have me."

Eames appeared to be honestly considering it. "If you train me, I'll have a better grasp of dreamshare than when I wrote about it or fell into your dreams to rescue you. I'll put some natural skill to good use if I work alongside you, too. I've been thinking that I should give writing a break..."

The author clapped his charcoal-stained hands and smiled for his darling. "When would I start this training?"

Arthur pulled the sheet across his body, smirking over at Eames and saying, "Find my PASIV and we'll start whenever you like. You might not write me anymore, but I'm fairly certain you remember where I hide it, right?"

Eames gave a lazy salute and stepped out of the bedroom, already narrating as he walked.

"Tempted by a new job offer, Eames began to search for the mysterious device: the PASIV which would soon be the way he earned his bread and butter, working at his darling's side..."


End file.
